Addiction
by Lilmuffin2017
Summary: Sherlock struggles with his past addictions. John tries to help him but Sherlock always pushes him away. Will John be able to help his best friend in the end? Rated T for very little language and drugs. Takes place after Hounds of Baskerville and before Reichenbach Fall.
1. Secrets

"Sherlock?" John called as he stepped out of his bedroom. Last night was hazy and he only remembered little flashes of it all. Sherlock had taken John out on a case for a cannibalistic man who had murdered and eaten three people in Cardiff. They had finished what they needed to for the night and stopped at Speedy's to get a quick bite. They had acquired alcohol and that was where John's memories had begun to fade.

John grabbed a pair of socks from the floor of the hallway and quickly slipped them onto his feet and continued into the living room to see Sherlock sitting in a chair facing toward the window. There was a wisp of smoke rising up from where he sat, "Sherlock!" John stepped in front of him.

His skin was paler than usual and he had dark circles lining below his eyes. Even his usually bright icy blue eyes had gone dull. He held a cigarette loosely in his right hand and had his left hand protectively over a pack of cigarettes.

Sherlock looked up at John, "John please shutup." He muttered. His eyes then went back to the window where he was staring at construction going on across the street. He was wearing his usual white sheet over himself.

John had enough of trying to get Sherlock to stop his addiction, he bent forward and smacked the cigarette out of Sherlock's hand and stomped on it. "You _promised_ me." John said hurtfully. Sherlock threw his pack of cigarette's onto the ground and got up. He pulled his sheet more tightly around himself and looked down looking slightly guilty.

"I know, John! You just don't understand!" He said his voice vaguely cracking. John was taken aback but Sherlock's sudden outburst. Sherlock lifted his head up and turned around to leave the living room and into the hallway.

He treaded into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. He let his sheet drop to the floor. His eyes locked onto his reflection in the large expanse of a mirror hung on the wall. Sherlock reached down to the sink and turned on the tap and cupped his hands under the running water and collected a small pool in his hands. He then lowered his head and splashed it onto his face.

He grabbed for the hand towel and pressed it over his face. He tossed it onto the counter and looked at his reflection again, he hated that John had to see his usual messy sleepless face. He had always managed to be fully awake before John had gotten up from bed.

He was even in a worse state because he had a pounding headache as a result for drinking too much the previous night. He stumbled over to the shower and quickly turned on the water and stepped in. He felt so tired and hung over he should've just stayed and bed and had Ms. Hudson bring him tea and soup.

Sherlock could hear John in the living room and he knew that he was searching through his stuff to find his stash of cigarettes. This didn't bother Sherlock until he heard the specific sound of a certain drawer being opened. He got out and grabbed his towel and quickly wrapped it around his waist and burst out of the bathroom, the shower still running, "John! Please no!" He cried as the doctor managed to find the drawer that had several packs of smokes stocked inside.

John didn't even look at him, he jerked the drawer out of the desk and and walked over to window that he'd already opened. "John! Please!" Sherlock hurried over trying to grab for the drawer but John had already emptied the drawer out and sent the cigarette's down a long journey to the trash bins. "_Cold Turkey._" John narrowed his eyes and dropped the drawer onto the ground. "Go finish your shower."

He brushed past Sherlock and went into the kitchen to fix some morning coffee. Sherlock silently went back into the bathroom and locked the door behind him and crawled into the shower and sat down onto the cold flooring. He let the boiling hot water pour over his head as he chewed at his tobacco-stained fingernails.

Sherlock had been suffering from not being able to smoke, without John knowing he'd been sneaking out to smoke in the middle of the night for the past two weeks and he was stupid enough to be caught in the morning. Being reckless he was.

x

John continually became worried as several minutes passed as the shower kept on running and Sherlock did not come out of the bathroom. It had been nearly an hour when John decided to check on him. He got up from his seat and walked cautiously through the hallway and to the bathroom. He lightly knocked on the door, "Sherlock are you okay in there? You've been showering for a good while now." He said in a light tone.

He got no response.

"You're going to run our water bill up, come on out." John said again, his patience slowly leaking from him. There was still no response, John rapped on the door harder and hesitantly went for the knob but it was locked anyway so he couldn't get in.

"Sherlock!" John shouted kicking and pounding at the door starting to feel worried. "I'm sorry I threw out all of your cigarette's but that's no reason to be cross with me." John tried to the door knob again, his eyes trailing around the door and the ground for any sign of a key.

As his eyes swept the ground he saw water trickling out from the bottom of the door. John's heart beat sped up quickly, "Sherlock!" He shouted and pounded at the door harder. He backed away and leaned against the wall and lifted his right leg and pushed himself forward with as much as strength as he could muster and successfully broke the door down off it's hinges.

Sherlock was lying beneath the water that filled up all of the tub and was pouring out onto the floor. The only part of him that had remained above the water was the tip of his nose. John ran over the door and shoved his arms into the water and hoisted Sherlock out of the water by his shoulders.

John dragged his body completely out of the tub, his towel was still somewhat wrapped around him. John immediately when into CPR, pressing both of his hands down onto Sherlock's bare chest. He repeated it several times, "Sherlock. . .please. . ." He whispered as he pressed down as hard as he could.

"MISS HUDSON!" John screamed like a frightened child. He continued with his attempts at reviving his flatmate. He lightly patted Sherlock's face and pulled open his eyes to observe them. "Sher. . .Sherlock."

He gritted his teeth together then leaned in, placing his one hand over Sherlock's nose to pinch it shut and the other gently behind his soft head of curls. He pressed his mouth over Sherlock's and blew out all of his air. Sherlock gagged and John quickly sat up as Sherlock spewed out water and went into a loud and nasty coughing fit.

"Oh my God, Sherlock." John said still stiff with worry. He grabbed Sherlock into a tight embrace even though the man was basically naked. John continued to murmur Sherlock's name and nearly came to tears.

"What's going?" Came Ms. Hudson's voice.

Sherlock broke the embrace and quickly wrapped his soppy wet towel higher up on his waist and got to his feet, visibly shaking. He carefully reached over to turn off the shower. "Just had a bit of trouble with the shower is all, Ms. Hudson." He smiled faintly and bent over to kiss her gently on the cheek. He brushed past her and went directly into his room shutting his door behind him.

John got up and looked at Ms. Hudson who looked very scared and worried, "He's just being Sherlock." He sighed. He didn't need to worry Ms. Hudson about Sherlock's possible attempts at suicide. John would sort this all out later when Sherlock was properly dried off and dressed.

"I'll get this mopped up, don't worry." John said as he ushered the elderly woman out of the bathroom. She directed him to where all the cleaning supplies were and then went back down to her own flat.

John slapped the mop down onto the sopping wet floor and circled it around until it looked as though it could not contain any more water. He pulled the large blue bucket with cleaning chemicals in it over to the bathroom and kicked it over so the bottles would fall out. He then set it back up and wrung the mop out over it.

He tried to focus his mind on soaking up all the water on the floor so the big ball of worry in his stomach would go away. He stopped in the middle of mopping to let the drain out of the tub so the water would drain and stop dripping over the side.

As he crouched next to the bucket for the third time to wring out his mop Sherlock emerged from his room and passed John as though he didn't exist and went into the kitchen. He pulled things out from the refrigerator and drawers. Setting up some sort of lab, John supposed.

As long as he wasn't smoking or trying to drown himself John figured he should leave him to it.

John finally finished mopping and set the mop against the toilet and stood up to stretch out his spine. He had finally managed to calm down from this morning incident. He wondered whether he should go and confront Sherlock or even comfort him.

John made his way into the kitchen and hovered at the archway, his eyes following Sherlock's hands. He was dumping a ziplock bag of a partial human face out onto a clear plastic surface and examined it. With his eyes still on the face he grabbed a pair of tweezers and used them to lift up the edges of the flesh.

It seemed he had found something to keep him busy so John turned back out into the living room and reached under the mess of papers, bags of evidence, and case files on the desk to grab his book. He settled down on the couch and flipped it open to his page.

He kept his ears out for Sherlock, he kept mostly quiet besides the occasional shuffling and knocking glass beakers onto the ground.

x

Sherlock sat blank-faced on the couch. His eyes were locked onto the television, it was on the news and he was analyzing the new crimes. Unusually though he wasn't scoffing aloud about how wrong the police's leads were. It seemed to be his nighttime ritual, but he remained quiet tonight, curled up underneath a thin navy blue blanket.

John gazed at him from the kitchen where he finished up his supper. "Sherlock, have you eaten at all today?" He called out.

Sherlock glanced over into the kitchen then back to the TV, "No." He said hoarsely.

John got up and set his plate into the sink and pressed out into the living room, "Sherlock you're really not doing well today. Perhaps I should phone Mycroft?" John suggested lightly.

"No!" Sherlock rose to his feet, "That's so ridiculous to even mention such an idea. Really John why would I need that man to come here? I'm perfectly fine. Excuse me." He swept across the room and disappeared into the hallway.

"Goodnight." John said weakly and bent over to snatch up the TV remote and turned it off. He treaded softly out of the room stopping by Sherlock's bedroom door to listen in. His whole body froze when he heard the faintest sound of crying.

_Was Sherlock Holmes crying?_

That was impossible. John slowly pushed the door open to see Sherlock curled up under his covers, clutching his sheets. John slowly set himself next to Sherlock on the bed and lightly touched his shoulder, "What are you doing to yourself?" John whispered.

"John please go." Sherlock said trying to gather his natural deep and emotionless voice. His head had turned slightly so he could see John. His cheeks glistened with tears, and his eyes had become slightly red.

"Sherlock, what is all this about?" John lightly pushed on Sherlock's shoulder so he would face him. His hand steadily inched over to Sherlock's cheek, his eyes lazily grazing over his face that seemed so much different than it had before, his hand cupped Sherlock's face.

Sherlock didn't move, his own pair of eyes were locked on John. They twitched slightly as he looked over for every detail to sum up all that John had done in the past week depending on how he shaved.

Sherlock's eyes dropped down and he suddenly tugged John down and crushed his face into the doctor's chest. John hesitantly wrapped his arms around the bunches of dark curls that rested against his chest. John had no idea what to do or even what to think, Sherlock had never done any sort of thing like this.

His lips remained sealed as he had no reason to try talking to Sherlock at this point, there was nothing John could even consider saying at this situation. All he could do was comfort his friend as he slowly broke.

Sherlock's arm slowly slipped up near John's face, at first John only thought he did this to get into a more comfortable position but then he saw the puncture marks running up his arms. John sat up, Sherlock's head lolling to the side, and grabbed his arm, "Sherlock, I never. . ."

Sherlock quickly sat up his head tilted to the side very slighty. His curls hung oddly on his head as his eyes bore into John's, "I've done things before you've met me, John." He whispered, his lips barely seeming to move, "_And I still do._"

He had slipped the sleeve of his robe back down to his wrist and slipped off the bed onto his feet. His thumb numbly rubbed his arm as he looked down to kick his slippers out from underneath the bed. He stuffed his feet in and started out the bedroom once again ignoring John.

"Sherlock, stop!" John shuffled after him. He grabbed onto his robe and pulled him towards himself. "You never told me this, friends tell each other this stuff." He prodded Sherlock in the chest with his finger, "You need help."

"Help is for the weak." Came Sherlock's deep hateful voice.

Before Sherlock could begin to walk away again John swung his fist right into his face knocking him to the ground. His whole body seemed to just collapse onto the floor, his face sunk under his arms.

He steadily rose back up to his feet his eyes studying the doctor. "You're stressed John, just let me be." He numbly rubbed his face.

"I'm stressed because of you." John replied calmly.

"No, you're stressed because of your recent girlfriend, Jessica is it? You've been so busy with her you forgot to change your shirt you've had it on for three days. On your sleeve there's black marks near the wrists. She was crying, you comforted her and her mascara was wiped onto your shirt. It's a lot of mascara, there's also some around your shoulder. Not as visible considering you noticed it there and wiped it off. It wasn't just something little, it was big some sort of news. I noticed the way you came home looking very frightened, thought maybe you just saw something out of the ordinary. No. Jessica has cancer, there's several pieces of hair on you from her, more than any usual girl. She's losing her hair." Sherlock had rambled this quickly pointing all of the little things based on John's shirt.

"Yes you're worried about me, obviously you care too much about everything, but John you need to focus on Jessie."

"Jessica." John grumbled. "Now what are you taking?" He snatched Sherlock's arm and pulled the sleeve's up examining the spots where a needle had been injected.

Sherlock's eyes slid over John, "Why do you care so much John?" He murmured.

"_I'm your friend._"


	2. Watching

John sat in Sherlock's bedroom as he slept. He was determined to keep Sherlock under watch so he wouldn't slip away into the world of addictions. John had managed to break Sherlock into handing over his needles and the rest of his cigarettes. He was reluctant about it as if he were handing over the cure to cancer. Even though John had smashed the needles and mashed the little rolls of nicotine and chemicals, he still was suspicious of Sherlock's possible other sources.

John sat quietly in a wooden chair sat at the foot of Sherlock's bed, flipping through a small novel. He made sure to look up every now and then to make sure Sherlock hadn't been able to escape somehow – which was quite possible. Sherlock seemed to be sleeping quite peacefully, though the expression on his face was haunted and he often twitched.

It wasn't until seven in the morning that John decided to get up and stretch out and have a cup of coffee. He kept his ears out while he started brewing up his coffee. He tried to think of what he was going to do once Sherlock awoke and stumbled around to do his normal things. John didn't really want to follow him around all day and babysit a detective.

He had to go into work at nine and he debated whether he'd call in sick or not. He rummaged over his thoughts as he settled down in his chair sipping at his warm beverage. He felt stiff and very sleepy from watching Sherlock for the majority of the night. He could just ask Mrs. Hudson to check on Sherlock through out the day, but that wasn't enough. There was a lot of time that Sherlock would be able to smoke and shoot drugs into his veins while Mrs. Hudson was busy.

He also thought about phoning Mycroft to ask what to do or just tell him what Sherlock had been doing. He also wondered if Mycroft knew more about Sherlock's drug history. . .

"John."

John's gaze shot upwards to Sherlock standing at the entrance into the living room with a shabby pair of pajamas on. His hair was flopping all around his head and his seemed uncertain about where he was or what he was doing.

"Sherlock." John smiled faintly.

Sherlock threw himself down onto the couch and stared up at the ceiling. His hands clasped together and rested them on his chest, "Why did you stay in my room all last night?" He asked.

"You know why." John replied and set down his cup on their new coffee table Sherlock stole from a crime scene. Sherlock didn't reply just remained staring up getting lost in his thoughts. John slipped the newspaper off the table and unfolded it in his lap, "I'm leaving for work in an hour or so. Do you want me to stay . . . home?" John smoothed out the wrinkles in the paper.

Sherlock moved his hands down to rest on his stomach and turned his head slightly to look at John, "I don't have anything left. You don't need to watch my every move." He sniffed.

John nibbled at his bottom lip and flipped through the paper and began to read the story that had been printed not making any further comment to Sherlock. They both remained silent until Sherlock abruptly got to his feet and strut out into the kitchen to pull things out of containers and make a mess of the table where John liked to eat at sometimes. He seemed slightly irritated by the way he jerked things around onto the table and slammed the refrigerator door as he got out a zip-lock bag of human flesh.

Sometimes he could be so childish when he was upset.

John folded the paper back up and got up and tucked it under his shoulder. He had circled an ongoing case for Sherlock like he always did and set it on one of the kitchen chair's so the detective could see. He continued out of the kitchen and into his bedroom where he slipped off his robe and put on his scrubs and grabbed his bag with all of his tools for saving a human life.

He swept out to the front door and stopped to call to Sherlock, "Goodbye. Please don't . . . do anything." Then he stepped out of the flat and down the stairs. He knocked lightly on Mrs. Hudson's door so Sherlock wouldn't hear. It opened soon after to the sweet elderly woman with a cooking apron on and a small bowl in her right hand, "Oh hello dear, I'm making some brownies, want some?." She greeted.

"Hello, no thanks. If you could just watch over Sherlock while I'm at work that'd be great." He said. She nodded and John slipped away before she could start a long conversation about baking pies.

"_Oh please let Sherlock not have any more stuff in that flat."_

Sherlock silently went through with his work trying to find traces of fingerprints or any type of identification on the small bits of flesh. He left hand tapped angrily on the table as he couldn't find anything and his head seemed to cloud up. He so desperately wanted to pull out a smoke and light it up and puff it a bit just to get his frustrations out. He kept waiting for Mrs. Hudson to come up and see what he was up to – it was an obvious assumption that John had asked her to keep an eye on him. John was always worried about him even though he several other things to focus on besides some drugged up detective.

The front door opened and there were light footsteps going towards the kitchen and as expected Mrs. Hudson entered holding a freshly baked blueberry pie.

"Ah. Right on cue." Sherlock said with a bit of bitterness, "Blueberry pie? That wasn't even made for me it was for the man you're seeing . . . or that you just fancy, yes? At the bakery? He was probably complaining he doesn't have very good pies or something. I've been up there, he's right. You want to impress him with your own pie since that was baked oh, two days ago. It's still there because the bakery is closed on the weekends. John asked to check on me so of course to you that means you should bring me something to eat, you must feel I'm more important – I'm flattered – so you decided to give it to me instead." He got up onto his feet and took the pie from her, "Thank you Mrs. Hudson, you should be going now."

"Oh, Sherlock." She clucked her tongue disapprovingly. She looked as though she were going to take a seat but gave a disgusted look as she spotted Sherlock's lab scattered over the table, "Could I make us a cup of tea maybe?" She offered sweetly.

"If you're going to be here you might as well." He muttered and stuffed the pie hastily into the fridge and took a seat back at his work. He slipped off the gloves he had put on and tossed them into the trash. He sat patiently as Mrs. Hudson bustled around the kitchen preparing tea.

She finally took a seat at the least cluttered place and handed Sherlock his cup. He took it muttering his thanks and started to sip quietly at it. "It's really nice weather out. Maybe we could go for a walk." She suggested. Sherlock held back from laughing bitterly and saying she was mad for thinking Sherlock would waste his time on just _walking_. He just gave a slight shake of the head and gulped down all of the rest of his tea and set his tea down on the table. He took Mrs. Hudson's cup even though she hadn't finished and got up to set them in the sink for John to wash later.

"Well it was nice to see you but you can leave now. You must have better things to do I would think." Sherlock said, though knew she didn't now because she had given her pie away so the outfit she probably had sitting on her bed wouldn't be worn to go see the man at the bakery. Sherlock leaned down to plant a kiss of her wrinkled cheek and walked her out of the door even though she murmured against it.

He shut the door and locked it and went back to the table but didn't go back into his investigation. He just sat pondering through his many thoughts that prodded at his brain.

He tried to think of a place John hadn't searched and threw out all of his _stuff._ Whether the army doctor liked it or not Sherlock was addicted to things that helped him get through everything he constantly faced within his mind. Everything he thought of and endured slowly damaged what was left of his soul and his mind. It made him even more crooked and heartless as he went on through the years and he had always sourced to go to the bathroom to give himself a shot or a smoke to settle himself and fix the damage that was done. John would never understand that everything that happened, whether it seemed like it on the outside, pained Sherlock more every time.

There was so much to Sherlock Holmes that nobody would ever understand.


	3. Cancer

**Now sorry for taking forever to upload and sorry for making this so short. I just started high school so I've had a lot of stuff on my plate! But I hope you enjoy! Please review! :)**

"You're home later than usual." Sherlock said softly as John stumbled into the flat. He looked a wreck and soon Sherlock caught the subtle stain of tears on John's cheeks and he decided not to comment on the matter further, "Mrs. Hudson brought up pie if you want any."

His eyes stayed on the small fragile man as he lumbered into the kitchen to cut himself a slice of pie. He didn't say anything as he sat down, he didn't even eat his pie, only stared at it blankly. Sherlock got up from his chair and entered the kitchen cutting himself his own piece of pie and sitting right across from his friend. He hadn't even tried the pie yet and he wasn't too keen on trying now when there was much more on his mental plate.

He couldn't help but observe the small clumps of dark hair on John's dress shirt underneath the jacket he hadn't taken off. It was more than last time. No mascara visible this time but there was a faint splash of crimson underneath John's coat and Sherlock couldn't stop himself. He let out a harsh cough to see John look up with eyes filling instantly with emotion but quickly drained away.

"Lung cancer." Sherlock murmured.

"Excuse me?" John looked up into Sherlock's eyes.

"Nothing, ahem. I need to go rest. I have to start a case in the morning." And with that Sherlock was up and out of kitchen leaving John sitting there quivering with grief. He buried his head into his arms letting all his tears pour free. He had spent most of his night crying at his girlfriend's flat. She was in terrible condition and could barely move she was so stumped with headache and body pain. She had that night broke the news that she only had six months maximum to remain on Earth. Cancer had witched her, witched the girl John had fallen the hardest for out of them all.

John was lost and had no clue where he was to go or what he was to do next. Sherlock was trying to slowly kill himself off while his beloved woman was quickly dying without her say so. He was stuck and he still couldn't comprehend everything that was happening.

He slipped off his jacket and tossed it onto the back of his chair and stuffed bits of pie into his mouth trying to avoid thinking at all. Thinking only dug him in a deeper rut of emotion.

X

Sherlock sat in his bed, tucked under his soft freshly laundered blankets. His fingertips pressed together as his eyes bore at the ceiling, his brain deep into thought. He had heard the faint sniffles from John out at the kitchen table, which only confirmed his belief that not only was his girlfriend enduring lung cancer but she was soon to become non-existent. Sherlock couldn't find any emotion for the girl, only John having to go through all of the loss. His poor John and his cute little striped sweater.

Sherlock was his best friend, he was supposed to do something. John was always there for him so Sherlock decided it was his turn to be there to help in some sort of way. He just didn't know how. He never knew how to deal with helping others with feelings or emotions because he never had those sort of things himself. It was always a strength for him, but now it was a disadvantage.

X

John slipped out of his jeans and dress shirt and put on a robe over his boxers. Each movement and action was mentally painful and it all felt gray and slow motion. He tried to drag himself out of such depression but it weighed down on him too heavily. All he could do was manage to shuffle under his soft warm comfortable covers and curl up and wish for a peaceful sleep.

He nearly had a heart attack when he felt long cold fingers wrap around his shoulders. He flipped over to see that pale face with cold blue eyes that seemed warmer than usual. "S-Sherlock . . . what are you doing?" John had cautiously gotten up into a sitting position. Sherlock sat up also, keeping his eyes on the army doctor. He looked unsure and confused as he sat silently in John's bed – with John.

He awkwardly slipped his long slender arms around John and slowly pulled him in close. "You're _doleful_. I'm comforting you." He said impassively. He was fixed on holding John into the stiff embrace. John didn't know what to say or even do, he just sat there limply as Sherlock kept his arms locked around him. Eventually he found himself lie his head against Sherlock's surprisingly lean chest. "You always take care of me John."

"Because I care about you." John whispered into his shoulder. Sherlock gently pressed John down onto bed and slipped away. Before John could respond in any way Sherlock tucked the blankets over his friend. He stepped around the bed to the doorway and turned around to gaze at John.

"I'm taking care of you too." His hand reached for the doorknob and he slowly inched it close, "Because I care about you too, Dr. Watson." He was then gone, the door shut after him. He walked slowly down the hallway, unaware of it, he started pacing. Up and down the hallway he went sorting through little thoughts and details in his mind. He couldn't sleep if there was too much to think about.

It seemed like hours before Sherlock cleared some of his mind and settled down by the window with a cup of hot chocolate. He enjoyed the scenery of the moon, the dark blue sky, and stars. Only one more thought was still in his mind pestering his every move.

"_Where is my stuff?"_


	4. Masks

When John woke the next morning Sherlock had left their flat leaving a note on the fridge hastily written, "At morgue -SH". John peeled it from its place crumpling it up and tossing it in the trash. He couldn't help but wonder if that was actually where he was. John grinded his teeth together, frustrated that Sherlock had slipped away while he was asleep.

He decided to phone Molly to ask if she was up there and if Sherlock had arrived. He set on a pot of coffee and went to search for his mobile. He sifted through papers on the desk in the living room and the few papers in his bedroom that sat on his nightstand. He finally found it under his sheets and he carried it out to the kitchen and dialed Molly while pouring himself his morning beverage.

He sat down at the table waiting for Molly to pick up.

"Molly speaking." A kind and tired voice spoke.

"This is John, I was just wondering if Sherlock was at the morgue."

"He stopped by to tell me not to—" She started but stopped abruptly, "H-He's back now. He, um, I mean he said he'd be out a-and…"

"Molly," John sighed, "He's been doing drugs, you need to tell me when he left and where to."

"Drugs? You're overreacting. Sherlock doesn't do drugs he only had a habit of smoking." Molly's voice slowly filled with worry.

"Molly, his arms have puncture marks. I found and pillaged his _supplies_. Cocaine, Molly. Cigarettes too. _Tell me when he left and where to._" John persisted. Molly gulped and her breathing quickened as she tried to process this all.

"H-He left about a half an hour ago. He didn't say where, just to run errands." She forced out her words, "Oh God, John. How long has he been doing these things?"

John bit the insides of his cheeks, "I don't know." He sighed, "I've got to go and find him. Good day Molly." He hung up and rushed out of the kitchen and into his bedroom. He threw off his robe and trifled through his clothing, grabbing a plain striped sweater and jeans. He pulled his sweater on over his head and jeans up around his waist quickly snapping on a belt. He stuffed his phone in his back pocket hurried back out to the living room to swipe his jacket from the coat rack. He pushed out of the flat while forcing his arms into his jacket. Mrs. Hudson was emerging from her apartment with a purse tightly grasped under her arm.

"Oh, John!" She smiled.

"Sherlock, drugs, gone out, got to go Miss Hudson!" John huffed as he brushed swiftly past her and out onto the sidewalks. He quickly hailed a cab and stumbled inside. He tried to collect his thoughts and he settled into his seat. Where was he even going to go? He only had a couple of ideas of where his friend had gone off to. That what his only hope.

X

He arrived downtown to a rough looking street. He hand some pounds into the cabbie's hand and scurried off. He went towards the shady Chinese mask shop. Sherlock had gone there a few times with John always seeming to disappear when they entered and reappear questioning John's confusion. It was a possible place of where Sherlock might . . .

"Hullo!" Came a hefty voice of a woman behind the register. John bent over a bit placing his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. He looked around for a black coat and dark curls. He scolded himself for never seeing the oddity of Sherlock going here, nor the fact he seemed suspicious about it. John had always assumed he was going there for a case or something.

"Hi," John stepped over to the woman and rested against the counter, "Have you seen my friend here?"

"Cheekbones?" Her voice was heavy with an accent, "He in back getting mask."

"Getting a mask, hmmph." John muttered and wandered towards they door by a wall of purple Mardi Gras masks. He was just happy he would be able to catch Sherlock before the drugs were in. He absent-mindedly walked around the gallery of masks taking in each one and its own set of unique details. He lost track of time completely and got caught up in observing the store.

He didn't notice anything, his mind seemed to leave him for a long time. Everything slowly moving around him as he stepped around.

"Sir are you buying? You been here long time." The woman called from her desk.

John looked back at her and lifted his arm to check his watch, "_Shit!_" John wondered how he had managed to waste an hour on looking at masks made by the Chinese. "My friend? Where'd he go? Is he still here?"

"What friend? You only one come here today." She said although John sensed a lack of candor.

"I don't have time for this." John growled and pushed out the door. It took him longer than intended to get a cab. When he got one the driver demanded more money than John could afford but he didn't express this fact to the driver. He just sat quietly trying not to have a nervous breakdown. He tried to breathe in and out slowly and calm himself. Sherlock would be home by now and there must've been a door out the back he had used. "Sherlock, oh Sherlock." John grimaced. He was not ready to what he would find when he got back to 221b Baker street.

X

"John."

Sherlock was lying on his normal position on the couch with a robe on over a pair of pajama's as if trying to create the illusion he had just gotten up. "Sherlock I know where you've been." John said feeling rage build inside of himself.

"The morgue. Then to the bakery to buy myself a biscotti. Then of course back home." His tone bored, impassive even.

"Don't you dare lie to me, Sherlock Holmes." John's voice started to gradually rise and his fists were clenched together tightly. Sherlock of course was under the influence after swiftly observing his features. He had already dosed up. "I'm trying . . ." His voice started to shake, "I'm trying to help you." He felt his eyes slightly water and his body shake.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling nearly looking regretful and guilty, "I don't know what you're talking about." He whispered.

John kept his lips pressed together, "You have no idea . . ." He pressed a hand over his face trying to stop the tears that threatened at the back of his eyes. He tried not to scream and cry at the frustrating detective. "Sherlock, you have no idea how much I care and do for you." His hand grasped the door to their flat, "But I'm done caring and trying for you." He opened the door stepping outside, eyes still on the man with the cheekbones.

_"I'm done."_


	5. Loss

Sherlock's phone buzzed beside him. He barely noticed it but grabbed it in time to answer to Lestrade, "What is it?" His voice was hoarse and distant.

"Sherlock we're all worried about you. I haven't seen or talked to you in a week. I can't get a hold of John . . ." His voice was strung thin, "What is going on?"

Sherlock bit back a bitter laugh, "Nothing." He muttered and hung up the phone. John was gone and Sherlock had sat in the same spot for a week, only getting up for a parcel of food or to use the bathroom. He slept in the spot though constantly woken up by his own screams. He was haunted by his own self and the loss of his only friend.

He was crumpled into a ball on the couch wearing the same pj's he had been wearing since John had walked out the door. His face was pasty and had developed five o-clock shadow. His eyes were sunken and dark. He was a wreck. He had of course continued to dose up on his drugs more so to subside the mental and emotional pain. It slowly only made him feel worse, he tried to dose up on more and more each time to make it more effective.

He sat there staring at the television. It wasn't even on but Sherlock found himself staring at it. Waiting for something to happen he supposed. Waiting for anything to happen. He didn't know what he was doing with himself.

He finally pulled himself up from the sofa and carried himself into the bathroom. He avoided observing his horrific state in the mirror and stripped his clothes and forced himself into the shower. He winced and then quickly pulled knob releasing ice cold drops of water. He let out a small shout as it poured over him and woke up every pore of his body. He gasped and fell back against the shower wall and slid down on the floor of the bathing tub. He slid his hands over his face slightly massaging it.

He smiled slightly and ran his hands through his damp curls. He let out a breath of relief and remained sitting in the shower being drenched in the icy pellets of water. He knew what he was going to do.

X

John had always kept his single bedroom flat just in case of anything. Sherlock knew this even though John had never shared the particular detail.

Sherlock had pulled on a clean dress shirt, pants, and shoes. He finished it off with his long black coat that hung below his knees. He buttoned it up and folded the collar down. He stared at himself in the mirror, he looked a lot thinner but his look had improved from his sour state that morning. He grabbed his scarf and folded it around his neck. He made himself a piece of toast and started for the door.

He stuffed the bread into his mouth and flung open the door nearly choking when he ran into a tired looking army doctor. He went into a coughing fit spitting up moist bits of bread as he backed into the flat. His eyes quickly swiped over John's body and stopped at the sullen expression on his face which explained nearly everything along with the unopened envelope clutched in his hand.

John's eyes were fixated on the ground and he looked as though he were holding back a lot of words and tears. Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his last bag of cocaine and his only needle. John's eyes scaled upwards to Sherlock's hands. The needle dropped to the floor and soon Sherlock stomped a foot over it crushing it into several pieces. Then he gently took a hold of John's hands, slightly caressing it, and pushed the bag of white powder into his grasp. "I'm done John." His hands moved to cup John's soft round face.

John didn't seem too concerned about the drugs at the moment, Sherlock knew why and could see the emotion in army doctor's face, "She's dead."

Sherlock didn't bother trying to fake surprise of the news or harbor any type of exasperation and sympathy for Jessica but only for his dear John. He wrapped his arms around his small frame and pulled him into his chest, "I'm so sorry John. _For everything._" Sherlock whispered. John went on in his silent sobs in the safety of Sherlock's long coat and buff chest. He was thankful for Sherlock's cooperation and slight sum of compassion.

X

Sherlock entered the living room with tray containing two cups of tea. He set it down on the coffee table and handed John one where he lay on the couch watching the tele. He didn't seem as though he were really watching it only giving his eyes a place to focus on while his mind spun. He took the cup gratefully and propped himself up a bit to be able to sip at his drink without spilling it. Sherlock took his cup and sat on the same couch by John's socked feet.

They sat silently for a while sipping at their tea and listening to the news drone on. Four consecutive murders and none of the people were connected. The murderer was on the loose and hadn't been identified yet, near to no evidence had been found but the news castor said to not loose help which made Sherlock laugh bitterly. He pulled out his phone and held it in his hand as though expecting a call. It ringed but a minute later.

"Lestrade." Sherlock greeted without checking who it was.

"So you saw. Four murders? They were all in Oxford three days ago all around four p.m." Lestrade answered.

"Oxford." Sherlock said, "Hmm. Bit of a drive for me right now. I'm sorry but I'm busy." He said as he glanced to the napping John curled up next to him on the couch. His empty tea cup still held in his hand that hung off the sofa.

"Are you pulling my chain? You're always up for a case! I can get you a cab, Sherlock. The police force is quite stumped right now, Anderson can't—"

Sherlock chuckled lightly, "Anderson can't anything, Lestrade. Don't compare your department's ability on that idiot." He grumbled flipping off the television. "They aren't connected but that all mark a certain requirement. Females all of them, also all blonde. Hair, something to do with hair."

"We've already pegged that detail. We just don't know what it's got to with hair." Lestrade explained. Sherlock gulped down the rest of his tea and rather roughly tossed it onto the coffee table and got up to pace around the room.

"Obviously a family member or spouse had similar hair coloring. Had cancer and passed away. In order to keep her alive this murderer needs the hair. Wigs won't satisfy him, no. He need's the real strands of blonde. Natural blonde. Of course he can't kidnap the women shave off their hair and just let them go. They must be murdered. Also the bodies he made sure they were completely mangled so the obvious fact that their hair is gone is unnoticeable. Come on Lestrade shape up. I've got to go now." He hung up and turned off his phone so he wouldn't be bothered with any more phone calls.

He continued to pace around trying to resist thinking further about the murder case. It would consume him enough to forget about the actual emotional pain with John and his losses. He needed to keep focused on something he didn't really succeed in. Friendships, comforting, emotions. . .

Sherlock glanced back at his friend. He had to admit he looked so peaceful sleeping on the couch. As if nothing could harm him in that state. Sherlock lifted his wrist up to spot the time of five past seven in the evening. He had spent most of his day with John on the couch silently watching news and trying to get John to check up on his blog, "You're my blogger. You must do your job." Sherlock had tried in the cheeriest tone possible. John only went through some comments or messages but didn't really bother to do much more.

Sherlock tried not to press too much of anything on him in the fear that he might just shatter into pieces. He also had to deal with himself, the constant want of drugs and nicotine scratching at him. He pushed it down every time and tried to replace it with a bar of chocolate or some coffee. Caffeine always seemed to loosen the addiction of drugs. John hadn't spoke about anything about the drugs, but he hadn't spoken about any thing at all either.

Sherlock had become quite worried in face since John always seemed like a decently strong person. A person who didn't linger in the past and remain with the haunted feelings. He hated to see John like this—so distant and unable to cope with everything. He seemed so lost and unsure of where to go next and Sherlock desperately tried to lead him. To help him.

"Can't you stop pacing." Came a muffled voice.

Sherlock's instantly froze and looked over at the couch where John was looking up at him sleepily. "Did I wake you?" He asked clasping his hands together behind his back. John shrugged slightly and slid back into his ball of sleep. Disappointed, Sherlock went into his bedroom to change into his night clothes. He felt the own clutches of drowsiness as he slid back out into the living room to check on John.

He grabbed his violin off of his desk and stood by the window and began to play softly, careful not to wake John. He soon was able to become lost in his music, every note a different thing to think about in his head and keep him busy until it was time to tuck John into bed and fall asleep himself. He tried to think of what he was going to do these next few days. He really hoped John would soon move on like it seemed he always did.


	6. Harriet Watson

**Sorry I do admit this chapter seems to be a bit rubbish but I tried to get it done with along with homework and studying and all that joy. But I do hope you find some enjoyment in it. Remember to review to let me know what you think of this! :)**

"I could carry you." Sherlock spoke as John tried to get up the stairs. It seemed his limp had slightly kicked in, "I really could if it is a must."

"Wouldn't be worth it." John said lightly still slowly climbing the steps, "Go get some rest, Sherlock. You've spent a good amount of time watching over me today. Go get some rest or find a case to start on. Don't worry about me, I'll come around soon." He had reached the top of the stairs and disappeared into his bedroom. Sherlock stood at the bottom of the steps for a while; his mind was mulling over a lot of the events and thoughts that seemed to fill it and he tried to delete the unimportant things.

He found himself climbing the very few steps up to small upstairs where John's room was. John had left his door slightly ajar. Sherlock stood there quietly as possible listening in to John crawling up into his bed with heaving breaths. His breathing was unsteady as he tried to fall into sleep. Sherlock thought about slipping in to sit with him and stroke his soft grey hair. Calm him down and reassure him; though Sherlock felt it was too much and John didn't need someone to lash pity upon him.

He went back into the living room to snatch his violin up off his chair. He stood by the window holding his violin watching the dimly lit street below; a few people glided over the sidewalks whilst many huddled inside the warmth of a cab on their way home from the day's events. His eyes locked onto the night sky and he found himself strumming a low tune on his instrument. The sky had darkened to almost black but remained a very dark blue, illuminated by the stars and crescent moon. Sherlock picked up his bow from the window sill and turned around and slid into the dark hallway of his flat and climbed up to John's room. The door was still slightly open and there was barely any sound seeping from the crack. Only the peaceful sound of sleepy breathes could be heard. A small grin tugged at the corner of Sherlock's mouth and he lifted up his violin to his chin and begun to play softly by John's door.

_John, my John. _

He couldn't recall how long he stood playing endless melodies to help put his friend into a peaceful sleep. He just knew that when his body hit his bed his whole body ached and dawn had broken. He almost instantly fell asleep and hadn't even bothered to pull his covers over himself.

X

John sat at the cluttered kitchen table sipping coffee silently. His mind seemed surprisingly clear for the moment. He was thankful his dreams hadn't been haunted as he expected. His sleep had been very harmonious and he felt well rested. He tried his best not to think about what had happened in the past week but to just happily sit in his flat drinking his morning coffee without a single disturbance.

It wasn't until he was washing his cup in the sink that he wondered why Sherlock remained asleep or at least in his room. John pulled his robe tightly around his small frame and made his way to Sherlock's room. He gently pushed it open and peeked in to look in at Sherlock whom was sprawled across his bed in an awkward position.

John stepped and peered over the detective's shoulder to his pale face blank and unconscious. "Sherlock?" John whispered. This slight whispered caused those beautiful icy blue eyes to shoot open in alert.

"John…" He said in a low voice. He stifled a yawn and sat up and looked out of the window, "Nine thirty."

"I didn't realize you were still asleep. You look tired though maybe it would be best to take it easy today. No cases or running about. Just sit and read or do whatever." John suggested.

"I wasn't going to work on a case today." Sherlock said getting onto his feet, "If you haven't noticed I have days where I just _take it easy._" He massaged his hands and popped his knuckles. He got to his feet taking a few minutes to blankly stare at John then he threw open his dresser and started to undress.

"Sherlock? I'm still in the room." John said his cheeks turning red.

"Would you like to exit? If you have a problem with male anatomy I would advise such action." Sherlock held back a grin and stripped off his pajama pants to replace them with black trousers. When Sherlock looked back to his doorway John had left, "Apparently so." He murmured. He flung on a loosely fitting dress shirt and pressed out into living room, "John if you would please cook up something, I am starved."

He sunk onto the couch and pressed his fingers tips together and rested them under his chin. He looked over into the kitchen expecting to see a grumbling army doctor preparing a pan of eggs but instead saw a crippled man crumpled into a kitchen chair with his head under his arms. "John." Sherlock said gently. There was no reply. Sherlock was clueless as what to do so he left his friend to grieving whilst he picked a novel from his bookcase and settled back down to read.

Perhaps he shoulder sit next to him and hug him or whatever _sentimental _gesture he could think of. His eyes skimmed over the words on the pages but didn't take them in as his mind was too full of thinking. He noisily shut his book close and tossed it onto the coffee table. "John, get your ass up right now. We're going to Speedy's for breakfast. I will not have this moping from you." He said sternly.

He got up onto his feet and stepped into the kitchen. John hadn't budged from his spot but Sherlock noticed his shoulder slightly heaving and realized John had gone into a silent sob. Sherlock's whole face softened and he cursed the large wave of emotion that passed through him. "John please. Let's just go out for the day, you and me against the world eh?" He tugged gently at his elbow. The doctor still remained in his current position and Sherlock decided to let it go and let him deal with what he needed to. "Okay," Sherlock said in a quiet and serious tone, "I'll be out."

He turned around and went back out into the sitting room and grabbed his dark long overcoat and buttoned it up quickly. He reached for his scarf and tucked it around his neck. His eyes lingered on his friend waiting for him to move at all, but the man remained slumped over the table. "Goodbye." John whispered as Sherlock opened the door.

A grin tugged at Sherlock's lips, "I'll see you later, John. Take care." He then left the flat with John in his terrible state.

X

"Did you solve it?" Sherlock asked to the man taking a seat across from him.

"Yes, we did." Detective Inspector Lestrade answered.

"Ah." Sherlock leaned back in his chair grazing his eyes over Lestrade, "We? You're not included in that I wouldn't say. You've only just put on proper clothing today. You haven't been to work nearly three days. They solved it two days ago," Sherlock gestured to the paper on the table. Lestrade stared daggers at the detective.

"Ridiculous. You've been talking to Donovan or Anderson." Lesrade gave a slight scoff.

"Your neck is usually slightly red from the tightness and friction from your ties and collar. There's always a small visible redness. You didn't even bother to put on a tie today because you've fallen out of that dress for a few personal days off. There's not a line or any redness at all. You're hair has no a trace of gel at all," the curly haired man leaned forward to sniff Lestrade, "Not even a scent of it. Your eyes are very bright not even bloodshot in the least. Being in your position and having your mind you must often be stressed. Also-,"

"That'll be enough, Holmes." Lestrade said in a strained voice, "Why'd you call me down here?"

"Can't I just have a proper breakfast at a little café with my beloved _Greg_." Sherlock said calmly taking a sip of his coffee.

Lestrade laughed bitterly, "Of course not. That's not something you would do. Something is obviously wrong with John and being at a lack for caring you have no clue as to how to comfort your _friend._"

"Wow. Impressive deducing, Inspector." Sherlock commented, "You must of heard the news then of his…girlfriend?" He took a large gulp of his beverage finishing it off. Lestrade nodded with a trace of graveness to his expression. "So, I was hoping perhaps you would know what I should do?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"If you did as I recommended I would suspect he would assume something of you. Sherlock, just let the poor man grieve. It's what normal people do. Loved one's deaths usually take a while to get over and John might need some time away from you. Have him visit family or someone beside a psychopathic detective." Lestrade answered.

"John doesn't associate with his family nor am I a psychopath. Have I not already explained I am a high-functioning sociopath. Good day Lestrade; you can pay the bill." Sherlock sharply got up from the table and swiftly exited Speedy's leaving Lestrade drawing out pounds from his wallet and setting them down on the small white piece of paper wedged underneath the coffee cup.

X

Sherlock sat on a park bench staring at people walking by trying to deduce little details about them. When he was a boy himself and Mycroft used to practice this and called it people watching.

A short bleached-blonde woman alarmed him as she sat down next to him awfully close. Her hair was shoulder length and she had bangs that hung across her forehead. She had on a violet jumper and grey dress pants. Sherlock could tell she was a nurse or doctor by the strong scent of antiseptic and the lack of dirt on the bottom of her shoes due to wearing scrubs. She was recently divorced by the looks of the slight tan-line on her finger. She had slightly visible wrinkles on her forehead and around the corners of her eyes; she looked around her mid thirties.

"You look lonely." She spoke setting her crocheted purse onto her lap. Sherlock remained silent and focused his gaze on the grass in front of him. "Sherlock Holmes."

His name caused Sherlock's attention to be gained and her snapped his head towards her, "Who are you?" He asked coldly.

A small smile met her pale lips, "_Harriet Watson_."


	7. Click, Boom

**Sorry if this is short but it's how it is. Four day weekend so I'll hopefully be able to post up a couple chapters these next few days! Enjoy lovelies. R&R!**

"John's sister." Sherlock whispered searching the woman's face. "Are you looking for him?"

"Yes. I was phoned by someone name Mycroft Holmes whom informed me my brother is in great despair." Harriet stated shifted on her spot on the bench.

Sherlock held back the hateful words of his brother and forced a smile onto his face, "Perhaps you can help him." The expression on the woman's voice changed to one of doubt and her eyes were haunted that of past sibling troubles.

"I don't know about that, but if it wouldn't invade your time it would be nice if you could take me to him as I was also told that you were his flatmate and . . . lover." She said in a soft gentle tone.

"Lover." The word fit uncomfortably on Sherlock's lips, "I am afraid not. The whole reason he's in . . . _despair_ is because of his loss of a _lover._" He explained, "I'll hail a cab and get us to John; who I would assume is still lodging at the flat." They both set off over the cold brick path that led out of the park and out near the streets. Sherlock easily caught a cab and piled inside after John's sibling. Sherlock spent a great sum of the ride examining the woman from the corner of his eye and noticed how much she seemed like her brother. She had a small build and her eyebrows resembled her natural sandy-blonde hair; along with the fact she was wearing a jumper.

"Does John know of your recent divorce or even your marriage?" Sherlock asked slicing the silent air.

The woman seemed baffled and took a few moments to stare wide-eyed at the detective before giving a reply, "Well, no. How'd you know that?"

Sherlock released a small sigh, "Your finger has a thin pale line from where your ring once was. It is barely visible so the tan line of it has been fading so the ring had been gone from your finger for a while so I would assume that you were divorced."

"Well it wasn't even a happy marriage. It wasn't the type of person I prefer." She murmured, "No need to bring up another one of my failures to Jonathon."

"Of course." Sherlock shifted in his seat and pressed his fingertips together under his chin, "Please do your best not upset him further." He requested as the cab stopped outside the flat.

* * *

"John." Sherlock entered the flat and spotted the army doctor curled up in his armchair staring at the fire he had seemed to be able to conjure up, "You have a visitor." He shed off his overcoat and scarf onto the coat rack and stepped aside.

John's eyes flicked upward to the doorway where his sister emerged from out behind the detective. "Johnny." She said delicately.

John got up from his seat, deserting his blanket, and moved towards his sister, "Harriet. I'm so glad to see you." He said and grabbed her into a tight embrace, "You haven't called in so long . . ." He whispered.

"Nor have you." She replied pulling away to observe his state of being, "Johnny you look awful."

"Yes, well." He gulped trying to keep himself from emotion, "How about you sit and I'll make you some tea and jam?" John offered while guiding her to the sofa by the bleak yellow smiley face. She nodded and took a seat. "Sherlock, would you help me in the kitchen?" He grabbed his flat mate's wrist without response and pulled him into the kitchen, pulling the divider across the entry way.

"What do you need? You can make tea perfectly fine on your own." Sherlock grumbled rubbing his wrist.

"Where'd she come from?" John asked as he pulled three tea cups from the cupboards. Sherlock noticed that his flat mate had changed clothes and put on a beige jumper and a tight pair of trousers. His hair had been brushed down evenly over his skull and his dress shoes had been shined. Sherlock could tell he had only gotten dressed mere minutes before he had barged into the flat. Sherlock shifted over to the counter so he could see John's face which was weighed down greatly at every crease by stress and pain. "Sherlock?" John interjected.

"I don't know where she came from. I was in the park. If you want answers to all your questions about your sister, besides her recent divorce, then ask Mycroft because it's all of his filthy little stratagems and spying." Sherlock jeered, feeling himself twitch faintly. His mind slowly filled with everything and his whole body gave a slight shake.

"Recent divorce, Sherlock—"

"Nevermind that," He paused as John prepared his cup, "Add extra sugar to mine please John," John stifled a sigh and dropped a cube of sugar into the cup, "She is here as company and that is all I know." He felt the frustration of not knowing all of what was going on and not being able to help start to catch up with him. He took a deep breath in attempts to collect his thoughts and self.

"It's obviously because of . . ." He trailed off in the failure to finish that sentence without a new stream of tears. He forced Sherlock's tea into the detective's hands and motioned him away. Sherlock took a sip taking one last glance at his friend and turned to step back into the sitting room, pushing the sliding door back into hiding, where Harriet silently watched John in the kitchen.

He set his tea on the coffee table, "I'll be back momentarily." He then rushed into the hallway and into his bedroom. His mind had started up into a rampage again his ache for nicotine or cocaine stabbed at him. He pulled open each drawer of his dresser and pushed aside each parcel of clothing searching for something that he might've been able to hide, but each door brought a pang of disappointment and soon he had searched ever drawer and he dived into his closet. He pried open every shoe box dumping countless pairs of dress shoes and even an old pair of sneakers onto the floor. He pulled himself up so he could reach into the top of his closet and carefully filed through the old beakers and test tubes stored there.

"Where, where, where?!" Sherlock growled under his breath.

"Sherlock?" Came the faint call from the living room.

"One moment!" He yelled hastily. His hands strangled his dark curls as he started to break. "I've got to have them. I've got to." He pressed his face into his hands grinding his teeth. _You can't even help your flat mate yet you can solve a murder case in seconds, ha! What a ridiculous human being you are, Sherlock Holmes. _"Shut up!" Sherlock snapped at his scolding thoughts. His own thoughts haunted him and he wanted them gone so desperately; just a little shot to get rid of this sudden weight of pressure on his mind.

The light sound of his door opening jerked him away from his ball of explosive thought. "Sorry John, I was just . . ." He looked around trying to gather some sort of excuse for the large mess of boxes and clothes and ajar drawers, "Looking for my pajama's." He swiped his plaid bottom from out underneath an orange shoe box. From the pained expression on John's face it was easy to tell that he didn't buy Sherlock's excuse in the least. Before the army doctor could make any sort of remark Sherlock had gotten up and pushed past him.

"Sherlock!" He shouted full of anger.

The detective snatched his uniform from the coat rack and pulled it on, turning around to face John. He eyed the livid man as he slowly buttoned up his coat and tucked his scarf around his neck, "John, like all people, I need to go out for some air." He murmured with a slight twitch in his eye, "Stay and chat with Ms. Watson while I walk." He felt a heavy blow at his chest when John's face resembled that of disappointment.

"Sure." He said tightly and turned his back to Sherlock, "Stay out as long as you've like."

Sherlock watched as he slunk back by his sister with a calming face and grabbing his cup in his hands, "He's got places to be. He's a consulting detective."

Sherlock lifted his chin glancing sadly at the occupied couch and turned to trudge down the stairs and out in the chilling London air, hands stuffed in his pocket and his head sunk against his chest. Without direction he ambled through the streets and among the crowds. There was a queer bustling about and nervousness from down the sidewalks, and then there stood a man but a few feet away from him.

Gun in hand.

The detective turned to face him, "Go ahead, shoot. I have not a trace of money on me." A slight smirk reached his lips.

_Click, boom._


	8. Author To Reader

Totally sorry if you were excited about a new chapter but sorry this is only a little Author to Reader thing! I do hope to post Chapter 8 either tonight or before noon (Eastern Time U.S.) tomorrow. Thank you all SO much for the reviews! They all just make my day and inspire me greatly to keep writing. This has honestly been the most fun fanfic I have ever written. So thank you ALL for the support.

ALSO! If you have any ideas at all for the story and would like to see certain things in the story please do say so because I will take all suggestions into consideration to make the story better for you! I really do hope you've been enjoying reading this story as much I have been writing it! Again thank you all so much! Goodbye 3


	9. Only A Bulletwound

"Is that your phone going off?" Harriet asked. John glanced over at his mobile humming on the floor by the fireplace.

"It can wait." He shrugged and finished off his tea and set it onto the coffee table. He thought it was possibly Sherlock phoning him or even Mycroft being curious as to why he could see his brother wandering alone on the streets of London, "So where have you be staying, Harry?" He said attempting at settling small talk with his sister.

"Oh, well, with mum here and there. I actually have taken to spending some nights at Clara's." She answered stiffly. John crossed his leg over the other and opened his mouth to reply but the door to 221b burst open. Mrs. Hudson stood there in a panic; her face had gone pale and her eyes wide.

"Sherlock!" She gasped in a horror stricken tone. Her hand was clasped over the door knob as she stood nervously in the doorway; her eyes darted around and landed on John.

"Sherlock went out." He said some-what bitterly, "Is there an odd client or something, Mrs. Hudson?"

She shook her head and looked on her wit's end, "He's been shot! Oh dear!" Soon after she spoke her eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed onto the ground. John had sprung to his feet and pulled her up into his arms and motioned for Harriet to come take care of her. She quickly pulled the elderly woman out of her brother's and arms and gently lugged her over onto the couch. She pushed a small pillow at the end of the couch underneath the woman's head and looked up to John for more explanation.

He lunged forward to grab his phone and without any words he had begun to race down the stairs and nearly fell over his heels as he pushed outside. He took a moment to gather himself and dialed up Mycroft as quickly as possible and clutched the phone tightly against the side of his head. "Pick up, pick up." He quietly pleaded. "Oh God, no." He pressed his hand over his mouth trying not to go into a panic attack.

The phone was picked up by Sherlock's own sibling and a voice said in a hiss, "Get in the car. Charing Cross Hospital, meet you there."

"Right." John said breathlessly. As he hung up his phone and hastily stuffed it in his pocket a slick black car pulled up directly in front of John and he hurried to get inside. There was a familiar woman sitting on the other side of the car whom was absorbed with her phone as always. John slammed the door and spat some words for the driver to hurry. _Sherlock had been shot? Where? When? How? By who?_

John sat in the car staring out the window hoping the ride would go quicker. He grasped his knees tightly as he felt the strong need to be holding onto something so he didn't slip away into a faint. He found it suddenly difficult to circulate air in and out of his lungs. He bent over and rested his head against the back of the seat in front of him. "Dammit, Sherlock." He whispered, "Damn you."

John couldn't focus on any one thought as too many swarmed his mind and his head throbbed painfully at the overcome of pressure and anxiety. Sherlock had done it; he had finally gotten into a fatal situation which John always had nightmares about. The thing that stabbed at John was the fact that in his nightmares he was there with Sherlock when it happened.

"Are you alright there, John?" The girl beside him spoke up. John sat back in his seat trying desperately to keep calm and embrace the fact that it could have only been a minor wound and that when he got there Sherlock would shoot an insult at him for being so emotional about it all. He would say that John needed to clear his mind and go get him a coffee because the annoying doctors wouldn't let him leave his current place. He let off a slight breath and laughed – slightly hysterically.

"Yes, I'm fine." John answered with a slight nerve to his voice.

"We've been parked at your destination for several minutes now. I'm not so sure you're al—," She began but John ignored her and barged out of the car and quickly pushed himself inside the small hospital building. The air inside was immensely stale and seemed to suffocate John, but he continued inside and ventured down a few hallways before he found a desk in which was accompanied by a few nurses. He kept himself together as he walked steadily up to the desk catching most of the chattering women's attention.

"Hello, umm, I'm looking for my friend. He's been shot and I was told he was sent here." John stated.

"What's your friend's name?" She asked impassively.

"Sherlock Holmes." John started to become impatient, he very much wished to just see Sherlock and confirm he was perfectly fine and he could go back to his flat while a simple bullet wound was removed and patched up.

"Oh. He's in room 314 down that hallway to the left. I'm not sure if he's taking non-family visitors. He's going to be prepped for another surgery in twenty minutes." The nurse said without looking up at John.

"Surgery? Where'd he get shot?" John questioned feeling fear shoot through his body. He suddenly felt numb as if everything had frozen and several needles jabbed into in to every pore of his body. Surgery means something vital was shot, right? No, maybe not, could just be . . . something.

"Sir, you can go see him if they are allowing." She said, obviously not wanting John to waste her time. The lack of compassion from the nurse nearly pushed him over the edge so he pressed his lips tightly together and started down the hallway sharply. Surgery, _another surgery. _John couldn't think clearly and his dull suspicion of what had happened to his irritating friend had become a deepened worry for his beloved flat mate. He took the left he was instructed to do and passed several visitors and doctors hurrying about like himself.

He finally found room 314 and stood by the door for what seemed like hours, very hesitant to open it and reveal what had become of his friend. He gripped the handle and pulled open the door and stepped inside with every part of himself hanging off the edge about to fall. His eyes frantically searched the room and his eyes caught on the limp pale figure tucked beneath a hospital blanket at the far side of the room. "Sherlock!" John shouted rushing to his companion's side. His breath started to vanish as he saw his friend in such a horrid state.

The detective's eyes were slits but he seemed at least partly conscious. "J-Ja . . ." He mumbled trying to grasp his words. His eyelids slid back so his eyes were wide open and revealed very dull and pained blue eyes. Dark circles lined the bottom lids and his complexion had become very pale from loss of blood and the overall situation. John grabbed his friend's hand; clasping it in both of his. It was chilled.

"Sherlock . . .what happened?" John whispered delicately. Sherlock's free hand moved up from under the sheet to the spot just below his collarbone where a wound had been dressed. To even think about it seemed to make Sherlock wince with pain and agony. His eyes moved up to John's face again and he looked at him with desperation and a deep hurt. He opened his mouth as to say something but started into coughing fit. "Calm down Sherlock. Don't talk, just breathe." John soothed. Sherlock's couch soon vanished and his eyes went back to slits.

John let go of his hand to pull up a chair by the bed. "I'm so sorry I let you leave . . . this is all my fault." John murmured somberly. He grasped Sherlock's hand against and pressed it to his forehead, "I'm' so sorry."

* * *

_The bullet had been excruciatingly painful and it was all Sherlock could have done to remain conscious and to smack the gun from his attacker's grip before he could start shooting more innocent souls. He swung out his arms making contact with the weapon and successfully knocked it onto the sidewalk. "Someone get him!" He shouted in desperation. The man kicked him straight to the bullet wound causing him to fall backward with a strangled cry of pain. Sherlock couldn't tell what had happened after that because the blood loss soon took away his ability to stay awake._

* * *

Sherlock had been removed from his room for his second surgery which no one had bothered explaining to John who sat motionless in his chair outside room 314. He couldn't wrap his head around the fact that Sherlock had been shot; he did suppose such a thing was ever so possible with Sherlock's occupation but not like this. He had been out in broad daylight in London, not even infatuated with a case, and the damn man happens to get shot.

"He's okay. He's okay, Sherlock is okay." John murmured continuously while he waited hours for Sherlock to be returned to his hospital bed back from his second and, God willing, his last surgery.

He fished his phone out of his pocket to check to see if he had received any sort of call of text message. He had in fact received a single message from DI Lestrade asking for details about what had happened to Sherlock. John didn't even know himself beside the obvious fact that he had been shot after walking out of the apartment in bad terms.

John couldn't help but fret about the possibility of Sherlock dying without John by his side. This thought forced out the tears that had been held in for several hours and John rushed down the hallway and into the men's restroom; luckily no one was inside so he leaned over the counter that held a few sinks and pressed his face into his hands letting out a few unpleasant sobs.

First his girlfriend now . . .

Another wave of tears broke over his bottom lids and he resided in a stall in case someone barged in and caught him in his hideous blubbering. He half-sat and half-collapsed on to the toilet and pressed his sleeve over his eyes trying to wipe away his tears into his jumper. He needed to collect himself and be strong. He could very possibly be crying over a simple petty little thing.

Sherlock could very well be fine and only needed some stitching up and antibiotic and he'd be good to be sent back to Baker Street. John took a few deep shaky breaths and broke out of the stall making his way to mirror to observe his face. His eyes were slightly red and he looked had gone a dramatic amount paler. "Pull yourself together." He whispered in calm voice. He stood up straighter, stretching out his back, and adjusted his coat around his shoulders then proceeded to exit back out into the hallway. It was decently quiet and slightly deserted in the place which John didn't mind at all because silence was calming on him.

"Sir?" A voice spoke from behind him. He turned around to face a woman, presumably a nurse, with her dark brown locks pulled and pinned back into a pony tail, "Your friend has been released from surgery and has just been moved back into his room."

John's heart skipped with both excitement and anxiety, "Did…" He paused to push back the emotion that layered his voice, "Did his surgery go well?"

"Yes. There were a few . . . complications though. He's not awake but you still may go see him if you'd like. Visiting hours end in five hours if you're not family." She replied.

"I am family." John said in a strong voice and brushed past her to get back to Sherlock.

He quickly found his way back to his flat mate's room and entered quietly looking over to where he lay again. As the nurse had said he remained asleep. John pulled his chair back up to the bed and sat down next to his best friend, "You're alive and that's all that matters." He murmured reaching for the detective's hand. He intertwined his fingers with Sherlock's and sat staring at his pale, blank, sleeping face. He let out a small sigh of relief, "You're okay, and so am I."

Sherlock's hand tightened around John's and the army doctor's eyes shot up to the smiling face of the consulting detective. "_Hello John."_


	10. Bomb Threat

"_Goodbye, John, Harry." Called the motherly figure after her children. John stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and trailed ahead of his sister who seemed in low spirits; her head bowed and her feet dragging behind._

"_Harry what's wrong?" John glanced over his shoulder at his sister."Do you miss London or just hate Ipswich? You've seen quite down since the move it seems."_

"_Let's just get to the bus, don't want to be late for school again." She murmured pulling her collar up to the breeze. John tried with difficulty to ignore her waves of depression since all his questions and worries would be shot down by her and thrown into the wind. It bugged John deeply that she didn't trust him to help her out when she was in even slight despair. "Stop thinking about me, I can tell that you are." She muttered and pushed ahead of him. _

"_Harry. . ." John whispered gently._

* * *

"Sherlock you're okay!" John exclaimed rising to his feet.

"Of course I am." He said calmly, though John could tell something was wrong even though Sherlock did a heck of a job covering it up. John noticed a tremor in his shoulder and left arm. "Why are you looking at me like that?" Sherlock huffed in an annoyed tone. Before John could respond Sherlock's face went completely pale and his eyes rolled back into his head and his body went into violent shakes and spasms.

John got up with such force his chair fell back on to the floor; he scrambled to the door shouting out for help, but it had been locked from the outside. John kicked at it and beat at the handle. "Help! The doors locked and my friend is having a seizure!" He grabbed the tray on wheels stationed by the empty bed in the room and hurled it at the door hinges over and over until he was able to kick it down. He stepped out of the room in a frantic manner. The hallway was vacant.

He rushed down the hallway to two more that sprouted out into more, "Help! Seizure!" He hollered. His head whipped around looking for someone, anyone who could help him. There seemed to be no one left in the entire hospital as if they had all vanished. "Someone!" John cried and turned back the way he came. He sprinted quickly down the stretch of passage way and burst back into Sherlock's room. His body still jerked around and a small unpleasant choking noise sputtered from his mouth.

He rushed over trying to pull out the information he had stored away from his days of occupying the position of medical study and tried to remember what he should do. He flipped his friend on to his side and set his hands over his leg and shoulder careful not to put pressure down on him which could cause Sherlock to dislocate his shoulder or break something in his jerky movements. "Shh, Sherlock. Calm down, i-it's going to be alright." His voice was high and panicked. Sherlock was having a Grand Mal seizure but why?, because he was shot in the shoulder? It didn't make any sort of sense at all.

* * *

"_Harry where are you going? This is the bus stop!" John called after Harry as she started down the sidewalk. "Harriet!"_

"_I'm walking to school!" She turned around with a scowl on her face, "Leave me alone!" _

"_What's the matter with you! You've been so ready to row with everyone lately and now you're skipping out of schooling! What is mum going to say?!" He retorted._

"_Nothing because you won't tell her where I am or where I wasn't!" She growled._

_John lunged forward and clasped his hand around her wrist, "Tell me what's going on right now! I care about you but you won't let anyone know how to help you and whatever situation you're going through."_

"_John." She whispered; he had become aware of how her eyes were watering and he face had become flushed."I'm not like other girls."_

"_Other girls?" John stared at her, dumbfounded. His sister's face flushed deeper and she looked up at him with pleading eyes for him to just drop it and forget about it."Harry tell me what you're talking about." He still held her wrist._

"_John, I don't like boys." She hissed, "And I'm not accepted anywhere." She spun around, jerking her wrist from her brother's grip, and sped off down the sidewalk; tears streaming down her cheeks. _

"_Harry!" John shouted after her. _

* * *

John pressed his hand under Sherlock's jaw and looked at his face as it shook and he gasped for air. "Oh God." John felt his stomach churn. He pulled Sherlock's arm out in front of him and laid the other onto his side and pushed his legs up to his chest. Soon the shaking and convulsions died down and he lay unconscious on his bed folded up into a loose ball.

John moved around the bed so he could more easily check all of his vitals. He held up Sherlock's head and forced open his jaw to see if there was any vomit or saliva that clogged up his breathing passage in his throat. John stuck two fingers inside his mouth to press on Sherlock's uvula, gagging him, and held Sherlock up in a sitting position as he forced out bile onto the tiled floor. John could feel all his muscles tense up and his breathing quickened. He tried to push John away and getting up, "Sherlock, it's me, John! Calm down, it's going to be alright."

He pressed him back onto his pillows and pressed his fingers the side of his neck to check his pulse which had sped up dramatically; to be sure he checked it on both of the detective's wrists with the same result, "Sherlock?" He looked up to the detective's face to see his eyes once again shut into unconsciousness. His eyes were moving around underneath their lids and his jaw moved around causing his teeth to grind against each other. John held his chin, "Stop, don't do that." He murmured. "Don't do any of this. God, Sherlock." He gently brushed his hand over Sherlock's cold limp arm then pushed his hands through his hair, restraining himself from pulling some of it out. The top half of his body folded over onto Sherlock's bed and he inhaled and exhaled heavily.

"Didn't you know your friend had bumped his head?" A cold and humorous voice struck the air.

John's stomach dropped at every little word and he rose up into a straight stand to address the slickly dressed man in the doorway. "_Moriarty." _

"I must say it was stressful to make sure everyone had left the hospital before you managed to break out." The man smiled kicking at the shambled door. He looked up into John's eyes expecting and witnessing the look of both hatred and confusion; even that slight tinge of disbelief. "I know what you're thinking, Johnny boy. How? Why? Well maybe you should already know _why_, but the how. That is always what puzzles people. How you ask? Well something so simple your silly little mind could've thought of it," He stepped carefully into the room, slipping his hands into the pockets of his freshly laundered dress pants, and leaned against the door to the room's bathroom, "Bomb threat. You do know how I love bombs, right?" His smile grew wider.

"It wouldn't be so smart to stand so close to me." John spoke barely above a whisper. His blood boiled within him, "Did you do this to Sherlock?"

"Not personally." He chuckled, "You know I don't get my hands dirty. I just needed a certain private detective out of the way for one of my own _clients_. I never insisted him to hit his head a bit too hard on the pavement. No, that was his own fault. I had only instructed a simple shot to an unimportant part of the body to put the man out for a month or so."

"No that's your fault! Playing with people's lives for game!" John shouted stepping forward ready to grab Moriarty by the collar and slam him against the tiled floor until his skull had completely caved in on his brain and the floor was permanently stained with his blood. "How about I just kill you right here and now you sick rotten man!"

He laughed and took a few cautious steps back, "No, let's not have a fight. I don't want to inconvenience the medical staff of cleaning up both your and Sherly's blood. It's really a pain to clean up, trust me." He then backed all the way from the room and vanished down the hallway. John stood glued to spot, silent and still. He was trying to do his best at restraining himself from running after the criminal and ripping his throat out. He instead turned back to his companion he lie asleep in his bed looking pale and un-kept.

John moved himself over to his chair, pulling it back up onto its legs, and collapsed into it. His eyes remained on Sherlock four hours before the people of the hospital had rushed in, in a frenzy of panic and apologies. Sherlock had been once against stripped from his bed and taken to a different part of the hospital while John was told to remain where he was. To wait to see if his friend would ever be okay, he just remember as he was being rolled out of the room his eyes had crack open to look at John with the softest expression he had ever witnessed from such a boarded up man.

* * *

_John held her as she wept on trying to explain things in a voice blurred by tears. "Harry, I love you, nothing about you would ever change that. I'm your big brother I'm here to protect and take care of you; no matter what mom thinks." John whispered."Hey we can skip today, together, get some frozen custard and walk around."_

"_I would like that." She looked up at her brother lovingly, "Thank you."_


	11. Family

**Sorry if this chapter is boring but I wanted to kind of build on the history of John and Harriet in this chapter and so it's more of filler right now in the present. Also not sure if you might of noticed, I'm American, so my phrases or other things might be off from those of British phrases or traditions, so sorry if I get any of those things wrong. (I've gotten better about saying flat and jumper instead of apartment and sweater). Anyway, enjoy the story you beautiful human being.**

John stumbled up the steps to 221b with Mrs. Hudson at his side grasping his arm for support. "Damn leg is getting worse." He muttered as he got up the last step. All he wanted to do was fall on to the comfort of his bed, curled beneath the warmth of his covers, and drift to a single peaceful sleep. He unlocked and opened the door frightened by the person whom sat on his couch. His sister still remained at the flat, beer bottle in hand and two others littering the floor.

"Harriet." John sighed, pressing his hand against his forehead.

She looked up at him, guilt flashing in her eyes, and stooped over to pick up the other bottles, "I'm sorry." She murmured and carried herself in to the kitchen to pitch her guilty pleasures.

"Harriet you can't be drinking here. If that's what you're intending on doing then leave. I don't have time for this!" He snapped causing a some-what surprised expression on her face. "I've dealt with too much this week for you to be added into the bunch. You can sleep here tonight but don't plan on making your stay any longer than that." He flung his jack off and on to the couch and started to limp into the hallway leaning on the wall as his limp progressively got worse as he continued walking. He grunted with discomfort as he tried to get up the stairs but gave up at the third. He turned around, deciding to spend the night in Sherlock's room, and started back down the hallway.

"Oh dear you can stay here as long as you like." John heard Mrs. Hudson's kind voice.

"Not with her drinking problem she won't." He grumbled to himself and pressed into his companion's empty bedroom. He grimaced at the small pang of emotion he got from being in there. He pushed it away and crawled up under the wrinkled and slightly musty covers and pulled them over his chin. His eyes slowly slid over his eyes and he drifted into sleep.

* * *

"_Mum." John greeted his mother at the door._

"_John! Oh my goodness you're back!" She cried out, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. She grabbed her son into her arms and tucked her face into the crook of his neck, "They told me you got shot and I was so worried! They were always so terrible at getting information to me. It kept me awake nearly every night."_

"_I'm fine." He said returning her embrace, "It wasn't even that painful." He lied. "And I'm back for good now."_

"_Thank God." She let out a sigh of relief, "Every night I sit in bed haunted by the thought of you out there in Afghanistan. Lord knows I have to worry about Harry too, her and her drinking problem."_

_John pulled away abruptly, "Drinking problem? When'd that start?"_

"_Why don't you come inside and get comfortable before I start on that bit." She sighed in dismay. John nodded curtly and followed behind her into the house, murmuring his sister's name in disappointment. _

* * *

"_John."_

John's eyes shot open at his name and darted over to the person standing in his doorway. He was half surprised to see Detective Inspector Lestrade standing there. John slowly pulled himself up into a sitting position and observed Lestrade expecting some sort of question or statement from him as to why he was here, but the man remained speechless. "What do you what, then?" John blurted out.

Lestrade let out a heavy sigh causing impatience to rise in John. "There's been a case and we're all completely stumped and you're as close to Sherlock as we're going to get." He explained stiffly. John took a deep breath wondering whether he really was in the mood to see dead bodies and yellow caution tape.

"Greg, I really don't think that's the best route for me at the moment." He huffed painfully, "There's just too much going on right not for me to deal with more."

Lestrade was silent for a few moments, standing in a stiff and straight position, then spoke calmly and slowly, "I understand, but if you do change your mind please do ring me up. We're all quite at wits end on this case. Even Anderson is wanting Sherlock on the case." His eyes were blood shot and his complexion was paler than usual.

"Right." John said softly, "I'll probably be at the hospital all day, if you would like updates on Sherlock's condition."

"Of course." He replied thankfully, "Well see you later Dr. Watson." He then turned and left the bedroom and flat.

John took a few moments before he got up on to his floor. He trailed unsteadily down the hall, thankful his limp had slacked off for a bit, and clambered carefully up the wooden steps to his bedroom. He unbuttoned his flannel pajama top and tossed it into a heap by the corner of his door then tugged off his bottoms and did the same. He grabbed a navy-blue plaid dress shirt from his dresser and slipped it over himself and buttoned it up slowly, taking his time and enjoying the unusual silence due to his flat mate's absence.

He suppressed a yawn and shuffled through dresser drawer for some looser more comfortable pair of trousers. He supposed he could've settled on remaining in his pajama's to go up to the hospital but he decided it'd be dearly improper and if Mrs. Hudson saw she'd march him straight but up to his flat for him to change. He slipped on his trousers and shut his drawers. He looked over his shoulder to his bed half-expecting to see Harriet lying there but it was untouched.

Must've slept on the couch, John thought. He went to exit the bedroom but stopped himself as an idea popped into his head. He went to his closet and reached up to the top to pull down something he hadn't touched since he met Sherlock; his cane. He subconsciously spun it his hand staring at it. The thing only brought horrible memories and made him reach the statement that the fact that he had to pull this thing out again only meant his life was slowly slipping back into the lonely pain once again.

He sighed and held it in his right hand and continued through his door and down the stairs, careful not to misplace his cane and send himself tumbling down the steps. He stepped noisily out into the sitting room and glanced over to couch where expected Harriet to be sleeping but it was also empty. "Harry?" He called now glancing into the kitchen. She must've left and it made John feel guilty for being so harsh to her last night. He couldn't have helped it though, he was distraught and stressed anyone who said a word to him would've gotten shot down.

He jumped when there came a knock on his door. "Come in." He called taking a seat on the couch.

Mrs. Hudson entered with a small paper plate with plastic wrap over it. John suspected cookies of some sort, "I brought you some _Cornish fairings_, it was my grandmother's recipe." She continued into the kitchen to place the plate of ginger-flavored biscuits on the table. "It's much more clean in her now that Sherlock's away." She commented softly. "Say, dear, or you going up to see him today?"

"Yes." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"I was thinking of going up there, see how the poor dear is doing, mind if I go up with you? Always feel nervous going out by myself, you know." She stepped out of the kitchen and back into the living room."

"I'd be delighted for you to come along, Mrs. Hudson." John said offering a small smile, "Let me get my coat."

* * *

"He's not awake and not taking non-family visitors." The nurse said as John and Mrs. Hudson approached room 314.

"Well that's too bad for other people but we are his _family._" John groused and rudely pushed past the young woman and into the room where Sherlock was stuffed underneath a thin white blanket, his eyes were closed and his curls were sprawled all around his head to show he had slept pretty well. The nurse followed after them into the room.

"Sir! This man had a seizure and we haven't yet ran tests to find out why so it's crucial that we eliminate anyone unnecessary from being here." She grabbed John's arm trying to guide him to the exit.

"He had a seizure for one of two reasons. When he was shot he fell back and hit his head on the pavement which could cause brain damage that could further cause a seizure. Second reason is the fact that he recently cut off smoking and cocaine. Wait," He paused and gave a harsh glare at the nurse, "What have you been giving him for his pain? Morphine?"

"I'd have to check his charts," She said nervously, "I think he's been prescribed tramadol."

"Well there you go. Three very plausible reasons. Now, if you'd shut up and do your job, I'd like to pull up a chair and spend the time that I can with my best friend." John growled, causing Mrs. Hudson and the nurse to look at him slightly frightened.

"Y-Yes sir." The nurse whispered and quickly slipped out of the room.

* * *

"_It was three months after you'd been shipped off to war." John's mother began, handing him his tea and setting down across from him on the couch, "She had gone off to some party with her current girlfriend, Clara. She was still staying here trying to finish off her schooling and searching for a flat to rent with some of her mates. I had expected she'd be out all night and wouldn't be home till the next morning. So I was putting away my leftovers from my supper and was preparing for bed when there was a strange knocking on the door. So I wrapped a robe around myself, I was already in my nighty, and went to answer the door. Your sister stood there alone smelling strongly of alcohol. She stumbled inside laughing and trying to make her way to the couch, not even acknowledging me, and collapsed on to the cushions."_

_She sighed and took a sip of her own tea, "So I said 'Harry please get yourself together, take a shower, and go straight to bed.' I didn't want to be too angry about it, she was of age after all, but it made me quite upset to see her such a mess. She didn't speak a word to me but she obeyed and went upstairs to take shower and went to bed afterwards. I simply dismissed it in the days following just trying to remind myself that she was a grown up and she was indeed allowed to party and drink."_

"_But?" John asked bleakly. _

"_But a week later I caught her in her room drinking down her sixth can of beer, sniveling over your framed picture, when she saw me she went in to an angry fit and started yelling and throwing things and, God John, she scared me half to death. Then she continued from then on, partying and spending most of all her time that she was at home on the couch with several bottles of beer. Even at dinner she'd pop open some cheap wine and drink it with her supper. She had quit attending college and was never home. It was when I was phoned by the police to come pick her up that I decided to draw the line with her." Her face filled with that of dread and sorrow._

"_What was your line then?" John asked not wanting to hear the answer._

"_I told her if she didn't stop all this nonsense and pull her life back together that she would no longer be welcome to live here and that she'd be forced out to find her own place. John, I didn't want to do that to her, not at all, but she was getting so out of hand I didn't know what else to do. She got very angry with me and packed up all her stuff overnight while I was asleep and had left before dawn had even broken. No note or anything, she had just gone!" She dropped her face into her hands beginning to cry._

"_I'm so sorry mum," He wrapped his arms around her, "I'm sure she'll come to her senses soon." He tried to comfort her but he doubted the very words he said._


	12. Othello

"Well, I have to be going now, dear." Mrs. Hudson said, swiping a handkerchief under her eyes, "If he wakes up tell him I hope he gets well." She sniffled softly and bent down to plant a kiss on John's cheek; then turned around and left the room.

John sighed and dropped his face in to his hands feeling emotions piling over him; too many emotions to handle for poor Watson. He didn't know that he'd have the ability to sit by his unconscious friend all day in such a drab place such as a hospital. Thank God he didn't have to sit around for his deceased love in a place such as this. A very important thought dawned on him suddenly causing him to gasp; Jessica's funeral was tomorrow. 'Damn, just another day to be forced out into a miserable place full of death and pain', John thought with a grimace. Not to mention the fact that Harriet had just left the flat without so much as a note. _Just how she left mum._

"Dr. Watson."

His head whipped around to see the other Holmes brother standing, propped against his umbrella. "Mycroft." He greeted roughly. Mycroft walked elegantly, everything he did was in that matter, over to his brother's side. He looked down to his face and examined briefly his whole body.

"Seizure?" He raised an eyebrow at John.

"How'd you . . . never mind. Yes. Grand Mal. He had another one while I was at home too, apparently." John said despondently.

"Yes." He murmured, lifting up the clipboard that hung on the foot of Sherlock's bed and reading its contents, "They have not recorded the one you observed? Were they not here?" He asked suspiciously.

"No, they weren't." John said simply and relaxed back into his chair exhaling softly. "Do you want something because I didn't peg you the type to visit the sick."

"Oh, John. Just because my brother isn't on my side doesn't mean you can't be." Mycroft smiled, slightly spinning his folded umbrella in his hands.

"I'm not on anyone's side." John glared, "I'm just trying to be here to comfort my friend in need."

"Very well." Mycroft sniffed and clasped his umbrella in both of his hands, "Goodbye." He bowed slightly and left John alone with his brother. John subconsciously massaged the back of his neck while thoughts rummaged his head. Mycroft must had been suspicious about why John had been the only one to witness Sherlock's first seizure and why. Moriarty, that's why. But there was no point in causing alarm about that evil man to anyone, especially not Sherlock. Last thing the detective needed was to have some sort of anxiety attack or nervous breakdown. Not that John suspected him as one to be affected by the sort but…

"He's always _so_ caring." A deep voice uttered.

John's eyes shot upward, "Sherlock?"

His eyes shot open, caught on John, and a smile formed on his lips, "Why didn't you tell him?"

"Tell him . . . what?" John questioned, sitting up into a stiff position.

"Why didn't you tell Mycroft the reason no one was here but you was because there was a bomb threat caused by Jim Moriarty?" He stated impassively.

"How'd you know about that?" John whispered, "You were unconscious . . ."

"Was I?" Sherlock grinned. "I might've not had been able to speak or move or even open my eyes but my ears are very accurate organs of mine." He explained than took a sharp intake of breath, "Damn." He clutched his shoulder close to where he had been shot.

"Do you need more meds? They've been giving you tradamol which could've triggered your seizures so I can make sure they just give you morphine." John offered.

"No, I'm fine." Sherlock held his head higher and pushed himself carefully up. "I need to get out of here." He griped. He subconsciously ruffled both of his hands through his sweat-moistened curls that sat oddly over the area of his head.

"No. You were shot and have had two very serious degrees of seizures, Sherlock. You will surely remain _in here_ until you are cleared for departure." John said sternly. Sherlock scowled at the army doctor and childishly flipped over on to his side, his back to John. John snickered quietly and pulled himself up on to the bed next to Sherlock, "Sherly." He prodded him in the back. Sherlock grunted and yanked his blanket over his head.

"Stop it John." He murmured, though had a hint of humor to his voice. He drew his covers up more tightly around his body.

"Do what? I can't hear you from under that sheet." John poked him in the back again over and over until the detective had begun to squirm around with laughter trying to bat John away.

"S-Stop! J-John! That tickles!" He howled and finally grabbed his hands keeping him from poking, "Is war what you want?" His eyes narrowed playfully. Before John could respond Sherlock had pulled him up over him and down on to the bed with incredible and surprising strength. He pinned John down on to the bed, "I'm leaving today." He whispered, "This place smells like your room." He mused and released John, sitting up on the end of the bed. John sighed, eyeing Sherlock with slight pity not understanding why the man wished to push his pain away as if it didn't exist. As if no one cared enough to help him with it.

"You're shoulder must be hurting you. I know how well you can just mask all your emotions away, but sometimes you forget to do that." John murmured. Sherlock's eyes broke the emotionless phase for a mere second at John's statement letting his friend see what actually emotions he was dealing with. John could see within the second of a slip despair, pain, and fear.

"Othello." Sherlock said abruptly.

"What?" John stared at his friend questioningly.

"I want to play Othello." He crossed his arms and looked at John with his once again blank eyes, "There's a set in my room in the bottom of my closet next to my red converse and bag of assorted toenails."

"Well I'll go back to the flat and see if I can find it." John smiled, "You . . . stay here." As if Sherlock had an option; though with him being as devious as he was he would try crawling out of the window by his bed. He grabbed his coat that he had shed off onto his chair and slipped it on over his dress shirt. "Bye, Sherlock."

"Wait, John." Sherlock called.

John turned around to face his friend, "Yeah?" He asked softly.

"Are you going to stay here over the night? That bed," He gestured to the bed next to his own, "Isn't accompanied by anyone and won't be for nearly three days." Sherlock said nearly shyly.

John felt himself blush slightly. "If I can, yeah. Though I don't want to play Othello all night because I'll bet you're going to beat me every round." He grinned. Sherlock beamed at him and settled back under his covers with a yawn. "See you later, Sherlock." John left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

* * *

John dug into the back of Sherlock's closet, which had already been rummaged through when Sherlock had searched for his drugs, and successfully pulled out a dusty Othello box. He brushed it off and looked at it with slight amusement displayed upon his face. The box looked quite warn and the picture on it seemed quite out to date; it had to be at least ten years old and hadn't been touched for five. John lifted up to blow off the rest of the dust and observe the box more closely. If he had Sherlock's mind he would probably to make several little deductions from it.

He set it on his lap, (his legs were crisscrossed), and lifted the top off to observe the contents. It held a sort of tray with the ten by ten grid on it and the pockets on the side that held the black and white chips. John pulled a single one out to conclude it was a cheap set since they were cardboard. The material of the tray was also flimsy and had several nicks in it. He had never pegged Sherlock as a person to keep board games or things from his earlier years of adulthood or even childhood.

John smirked at how mismatched the tray was, the white and black chips mixed together and some even scattered across the board. John let out a small breath and concealed the top back over the bottom of the box and clutched it to his chest. He carefully got to his feet, slightly shaking, and hurried out of the flat. He barely realized how excited he was to participate in a simple board game with his best friend. The most pressing joyous thing was the fact that Sherlock was okay. He was okay. John was okay also at this particular moment. Everything was _fine. _

He flung open the front door to the building knocking in to a body. John stumbled backward, clutching to Othello, and looked up to see who stood there. It wasn't a familiar face at all which led John to assume it was a client. He stepped outside, closing the door behind him, "May I help you?" He asked the flushed bloak. He was a round man in both body and face. His small beady eyes darted around nervously as if someone were after him. His face was smooth showing youth but his thin hair was prematurely gray as was the small whiff of a mustache upon his lip.

He pulled at the inside of his green vest and fished out a small card which he pushed into Doctor Watson's hand, "Addison Crow." He huffed. "I'm 'fraid I have just witnessed something tremendous. I was looking for he who goes by the name Sherlock Holmes."

"He's not here." John said simply. He felt pity for whatever this man had gotten himself in to, but he desperately itched to get back to the very man he was searching for.

"When is he due back? I really am in a rush." He said in a gruff and shaky voice. His face had remained a light red and even though snow was lightly parading down the man sweated profusely.

"He's been hospitalized, sir. It's hard to tell whether he's one to help." John answered, "I could call a trusted Detective Inspector of mine which I am sure could help you." John suggested, pulling out his phone ready to rattle out a phone number.

"I suppose that would do for now." He let out a sigh, looking slightly relieved. "Thank you." He forced a smiled. John smiled and nodded then gave the poor man Lestrade's number. After doing so the man dialed the number and forced his hand into John's in a tight sweaty handshake and scurried off. John stared after him feeling somewhat puzzled by frightened soul. He shook his head and focused back on getting to Sherlock.

He hailed a cab and slipped easily inside, clutching the box as if it were Sherlock, "Charing Cross Hospital." He called to the cabbie.

It was but ten minutes before John arrived at the small hospital building and pressed inside with the smell of anesthetic and disinfectant. John smiled to himself as he clutched the game box to his chest, he almost felt as though he were a child again, running off to his mate's house to spend the day on the living room floor surrounded by boxes of games and coloring books. He was also quite relieved that Sherlock had proved to be doing better to a degree.

He treaded lightly through the hallways, tapping his fingers noiselessly against the cardboard box of Othello, and found himself at the room in which Sherlock occupied. He pushed it open with his shoulder and glanced over to the heap lying in the bed farthest from the entrance, "Got it." John said, holding up the box. His friend's eyes slid upward and a large grin spread upon his face and he beamed at the army doctor.

Sherlock sat himself up, patting the place across from him with a mischievous look about him, _"The game is on." _


	13. My Chips

**So I'm just going to inform you there's a _smidge_ bit of Johnlock in this episode, so sorry if you dislike that ship but I love it. Nothing hardcore *giggles*, just some faint fluff between the two. ALSO I want to add that this all takes place after Hounds of Baskerville and before Reichenbach Fall.**

"I knew this was going to happen!" John growled as he swiped his black chips angrily from the board for the eighth time that afternoon, "I just knew with your cleverness I had no chance and I was right."

Sherlock chuckled at John, his face very soft and happy, "I can try not to win next time." The detective offered kindly. John laughed lightly and tossed the chips that had landed on the bed sheets back into the tray. When John looked up to Sherlock's expression his breath hitched. It was so sudden and abrupt of a face. Sherlock was gazing into John's eyes with a content smile and a strong visible emotion in his sharp blue eyes. When Sherlock realized John had been staring he quickly drew himself back to his usual stone face and blank eyes. "I want to be the black chips this time." He murmured.

John blinked several times before coming back to his senses, "No." He coughed, "My chips." He returned to his playful tone. Sherlock stuck out his bottom lip in a pout. _He looked so adorable. _"You're an adult don't think that act is going to get you your way." John grinned slightly.

Sherlock huffed and raised both of his eyebrows and looked down to the board and began to pick his white chips off the board and pile them into his hand, "Well. At least I can still beat you."

John grabbed one of the black chips and without thinking chucked it at the detective. Sherlock's glanced upward sharply, his mouth slightly hanging open, and a smile began to spread on his lips, "Oh?" He quickly grabbed a handful of white chips and flung them at the army doctor, but John had assumed at what was to come and dove out of the way – nearly falling head-first off the bed. Suddenly two slender and cold hands grasped his waist and pulled him from the bed and slightly up in to the air.

"Sherlock!" He gasped as they both tumbled to the tiled flooring of the hospital. He was then yanked backwards under the bed and up against the chest of his friend, "What the hell are you doing?" John hissed, trying to squirm out from under the bed.

"John, shut up_, right now_." He whispered in a serious and slightly nervous tone. John was about to object before the sound of footsteps entered the room. Something wooden tapped the floor as the steps entered the room. An umbrella. Sherlock's warm breath pushed against the back of John's neck, "Mycroft." His hand grasped John's arm and he tucked his head into the crook of the army doctor's neck. "I can't deal with him right now."

"Sherlock?" An angry voice came from above, "You do forget how intelligent I am." The pair of shiny dress shoes came near the bed and the umbrella suddenly jabbed underneath the bed right into John's stomach.

"Oi!" He shouted, pushing back into Sherlock. He pushed back again until they both slid out awkwardly to the other side of the bed. "Sherlock get over it and get off me!" John growled as he tried to get up and pry off his friend at the same time. Mycroft stared at them obviously irritated at their childish actions. John finally got to his feet as his companion rose meekly behind him glaring angrily at his prim and proper brother clutching his umbrella.

"What do you want?" Sherlock spat.

"I wish to observe your current stage of health." Mycroft forced a smile on to his lips, "I see that you're in perfectly fine health wise, but your behavior can always use some improvement." His words turned bitter. He flicked a pile of Othello chips with his tip of his umbrella that had been knocked to the ground. "I might suggest that the medicine that you are on is affecting your mood?"

"It is possible." John butted in before Sherlock could retort, "Look, Mycroft, I'm sure you mean well but I don't know that your presence is good for Sherlock's stress levels. Besides you were only just here this morning."

"I was alerted he had woke and was responsive. Thought I'd drop by," Mycroft began but Sherlock cut him off.

"Cut the _shit_, Mycroft. We both know exactly why you're here." Sherlock seethed, "You know something about someone and you're here to tell John, but I just so happen to be awake. Not that I wouldn't believe that one of your professional stalkers would have been on my ass while I reside here I have the hope that you'd give it rest on watching over me once I've been taken into a facility such as this. So Mycroft, what is it? Did you _finally _figure out that Moriarty happened to also _drop by?_"

It was obvious that Mycroft strained with extreme difficulty to keep a straight and serious face, "My dear brother." He sighed, "You have no idea of many things that happen right in front of you. Anyway, I do hope you soon are able to return to your work. Good day." He got up and left, his whole body tensed with anger.

"Am I missing something?" John asked as Sherlock slipped under his sheets in a frustrated manner. He didn't answer. John let out a deep breath and began to pick up chips from the floor and bed and put them back in to their rightful place in the tray. "Well, are you going to sleep then?" He glanced upward at Sherlock as he slid the Othello tray back into the box.

Sherlock sighed dramatically, "Not tired." His eyebrows were drawn together in concentration.

"I'm going to get some food at the cafeteria then I'll be back, okay?" John set the box on the stand next to Sherlock's bed. Sherlock looked up at John something passing through his eyes.

"Don't go." He whispered, his eyes widening.

"Sherlock, is something troubling you?" John stepped closer to the thin man. "Was it something Mycroft said?"

"Just…," He tried to force out the emotion from his voice, "Stay here. I can call for some food."

"Sherlock, it will only be a few minutes. I'll bring you back some food as well since I doubt you've eaten much all day." John said brushing his fingers lightly over his friend's hand. Sherlock drew his lips together tightly, avoiding John's gaze, and pulled his sheets up over his nose. John stifled a sigh and left the room swiping and slightly tugging at his hair in slight frustration. He honestly thought that Mycroft was there to see his brother no matter how detached the man seemed from his brother, but Sherlock thought otherwise. He thought Mycroft's appearance must've had to do with Moriarty? John swiftly rubbed at his eyes and released a yawn. He didn't need to rack his brain with all of this mayhem right now; it wasn't important.

John slipped down the darkened corridors searching for the cafeteria where he hoped they served decent food. His fingers tapped subconsciously on his jeans as he eyes flickered around the walls and door of the small hospital. He pushed through two large doors into a large expanse of room with several tables set up against a wall and a small salad bar pushed up against the other side of the room. There were a few groups of people scattered across the tables.

John glided over to the salad bar in which held tray with pitiful looking lettuce and other fresh vegetables on one side and several snack bars on the other. John grabbed two water bottles from the side by the condiments and also took two generic strawberry fruit bars. He stuffed them into the pocket of his trousers and held one water bottle in each hand and left as quietly and unnoticeable as he entered.

AS he walked he couldn't help but persist in wondering what Mycroft had exactly been doing when he decided to visit a second time in one day. Sighing, John tucked both bottles of water under his arm and fished among his pocket with the fruit bars and tugged out his phone pulling up Mycroft's number.

_What did you want to tell me? What's going on?_

_ -JW_

John stared at his phone for several moments before stuffing it back into his pocket and continuing back to Sherlock's room. Just as he arrived outside the room his phone buzzed in his pocket. He quickly took it out and opened the text message, pressing himself quietly against the wall, and read:

_Nothing of importance I am sure, Dr. Watson. Good day._

_ -MH_

John grit his teeth angrily, "Dammit." He jammed his phone back into his pocket and slipped into Sherlock's room. "Sherlock." He greeted. The detective looked over his friend quickly deducting that he had contacted Mycroft and most likely didn't intend on telling him. Also there were two fruit bars stuffed hastily in to the army doctor's pocket one for himself and one for John; along with the doubled amount of water bottles.

"Fruit bar and water? No thank you." Sherlock grumbled, flipped over on his side; back to John.

"Sherlock, you're eating. I know it's nothing amazing to the taste but you need some food in your system whether you _want_ to or not." John said sternly slipping into the chair by Sherlock's bed. He set Sherlock's water on his stand his own on the floor next to him, "Come on Sherlock." He prodded his friend with the packed bar of artificial fruit, "I'll shove it down your throat if I have to."

"Oh fine!" Sherlock growled and snatched the bar from John's grasp and angrily tore it from its packaging. He scowled as he bit into it, "Stale." He huffed but under John's watch continued eating until the nasty chunk of processed food had disappeared into his stomach. John smiled, obviously satisfied, and begun eating his own. He'd eaten a lot of foul things in his day and with the fact that he was starved he scarfed it down without second thought.

"I haven't eaten all day." He explained, slightly embarrassed.

X

John settled down on the spare bed in the room, Sherlock tossing him an extra pillow, and let out a sigh of relief. He felt awfully tired for sitting around a hospital all day. "I do hope you get out soon, Sherlock. It's pretty boring in here." He stated.

"I would say so. You can imagine that if I didn't have drugs that I, instead of shooting walls, would be shooting people." Sherlock replied. John gave him a frightened look, "I'm kidding, Dr. Watson." He huffed.

"Yes, of course." John smiled, "Sorry, long day."

"God, yes. I know." Sherlock pressed his hands over his face, "I will never be able to sleep in this freezing and uncomfortable bed." He complained, shuffling under his sheets.

"Sherlock."

"Hmm?"

"I texted Mycroft and -,"

"Yes I know. Right after you had gotten our 'food'." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Bloody hell, how do you know?" John sat up staring at him.

"Your phone was sticking a bit out of your pocket and had been placed above those wretched fruit bars you got. Obviously you had pulled it out to text him, then put it back in on top of the bars. When you entered the room and went to pull out my snack you seemed frustrated as if you had already just fished around in your pocket several times in the last five minutes and tired of it. He obviously didn't tell you what was going on because you didn't seem nervous about keeping any sort of secret from me like you were when you thought I didn't know Moriarty had been in here whilst I was 'unconscious'." He ended in a frustrated huff.

John just sighed and remained silent afterwards. Until he whispered softly and dolefully, "The funeral was today." There was no response and John decided the detective must've fallen asleep, but he hadn't. For when John had fallen asleep, soon after, Sherlock quietly stumbled over to John's bed and crawled next to him and held him in a warm embrace.

"_I'm sorry_." He whispered.


	14. Be Okay

**So this is the last chapter for this story AND SPOILERS ALERT AT THE END. If you haven't watched the last episode of the second season do not read this and go watch it right this instance mister. Okay, thank you all for following, favoriting, reviewing, and mostly reading this story! **

When Joke awoke he became tensely aware of the warm body curled around him. Sherlock's face was tucked in to John's short soft hair and his arms were folded up against John's back. He couldn't help but admire how warm and safe he felt close to his friend; tucked beneath the thin blankets. He blinked his eyes several times before carefully pulling his wrist up to check the time on his watch. It was little over seven in the morning and John flushed at the thought of a nurse or doctor peeking in to see the two men _spooning._

John lifted his hand to his temple to rub gently. A dull ache crept into his skull and he sighed, he needed to call in to work to make sure they knew he'd be out for the day. He groaned audibly as a sharp pain pricked at his head. He nearly jumped when a deep baritone voice spoke from behind, "Are you okay, John?" Sherlock's warm breath stirred against the back of John's neck.

"Yeah, fine." He mumbled, rubbing his head lightly.

"No, your head is hurting you." Sherlock whispered, slightly adjusting his position. John's mouth gaped as Sherlock's long slender fingers slid into his own hair and rubbed circles soothingly on his head. He put a small amount of pressure as he massaged, "Is that any better?"

"Mmm." John closed his eyes feeling the pain slowly seep away, "Thank you." He murmured delightfully.

John slowly drew himself up into a sitting position and yawned, "How are you feeling, Sherlock?"

"Well." Sherlock rolled his eyes and defensively pressed his fingers over where his wound was, "I shoulder be able to leave anytime."

"I do hope so. I miss running all over creation with you solving cases and I blogging about it." John smiled and got up on to his feet and stretched out his well-rested limbs, "There was a man, I forgot to say, came to the flat the other day asking for you. A client, I'm sure. Quite rushed and worried. Poor bloke must've been in some trouble; I sent him off to Lestrade." He paused observing Sherlock's expression but it showed no emotion, "Not sure how that went."

"Ah." Was all Sherlock said as he kept his eyes locked on John, "You're going to call off work aren't you?" Sherlock said with slight distaste.

"I was planning to." John replied, pulling the blankets back in to place on the side of the bed he had slept on. "I have a lot of vacation and sick days I can use. It's not a problem – I do rather be here after all."

A very faint smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, "Well, I'm not going to object. I cannot stand the idiots here. They think they know how I feel, 'Oh darling you must be in so much pain! Let me get you some more meds!', please. They must encounter those of wimps here. They give me morphine more than needed for a simple bullet wound. Tramadol wasn't as much given to me but as you know they took me off of that."

"You are stronger than most people, Sherlock; but sometimes I feel like you hide pain and don't take care of yourself like you should." John said in a more serious tone. Sherlock didn't reply only sighed and rubbed at his eyes tiredly. John looked around the room in search for his jacket and spotted it crumpled up in one of the chairs in front of Sherlock's bed. He slowly made his way over to chair and stooped down to grab it.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock frowned.

"To get us some breakfast." John pulled on his coat and offered a smile at Sherlock.

"Oh. Well, don't be long." He said casually. "I'll start talking to myself again if you're gone too long, you know."

"Oh yes, I know." John laughed softy and zipped up his coat, "See ya."

* * *

John knew he wasn't going to try at the dry and disgusting cafeteria they had at the hospital. So he hailed a cab and went off to the small bakery on Baker Street that he'd accompanied Mrs. Hudson to a few times in the past. It was named Benny's Biscuits and sat in between a miniscule flat complex and a pub. It was quite small and the building itself had been weathered down and the paint had been chipped off the bricks. It could easily be missed if you just bustled by without observing more closely, even if you walked right past it on a sunny afternoon you'd had never noticed it.

John stepped out of the cab handing the driver a few pounds more than expected and set off across the rather large strip of pavement. The walkway was quite crowded and John had to fight through the constant stream of people to be able to push in to the shop. When he entered he was greeted with the pleasant fragrance of cinnamon, freshly baked bread, and a general sweetness. The place was very nicely set up and the little treats they made were alright, omitting their pies.

There was a tanned and round man standing behind the counter in a lavender uniform, he looked up and smiled kindly at John as he entered. "John!" He greeted with a slight Italian accent, "Where is that lovely woman you always bring with you, eh?"

John smiled back, pleasured the man remembered who he was, "Mrs. Hudson isn't with me today. I was just stopping in to get something for breakfast."

The man beckoned him towards the counter and began to pull up freshly baked trays of scones, tarts, and even a few custard sliced pastries. "These are all just made half an hour ago. I have a few apple-crumble pies or simple sugar cookies that have been in the display for a while if you'd prefer those." The man offered never taking the smile from his face.

"I think I'll have a few scones and pastries to go if that's alright." John decided, eyeing the trays hungrily. He hadn't really eaten much of anything decent in what seemed forever and even a pie from Benny's sounded appetizing. The man nodded and pulled out two small pink-tinted bags and put a few scones in one and all of the pastries in the other and tied each one up with a thin golden ribbon.

"Six pounds and twenty-four pence." He said sliding the bags over to John. John slipped the money out on to the counter, thanked him, and ambled out of the bakery clutching both small bags in one hand. He walked down the busy sidewalk for a few yards, enjoying the sunny and cloudless day, before getting a cab and going back to the hospital. He would've preferred to stop at the flat, which would've been a short walk from the bakery, so he could take a shower and change his clothes but he remembered Sherlock telling him to not be too long in returning.

* * *

When John entered Sherlock's room, once again, he found the detective fast asleep in the same place he had been when John had left. The corners of John's mouth tugged upward as he swept across the room and set the still warm scones and pastries on to the small table next to the bed. He settled down on to the edge of the bed and rested his hand on Sherlock's calf and shook lightly, "Sherlock, I've got breakfast."

"Mm." Sherlock hummed remaining still with his eyes closed.

"Scones and custard sliced pastries." He said in a soft tone, almost as if talking to small child.

"Custard . . . pastries?" Sherlock mumbled, turning on to his other side towards John. His eyes slowly slid open but they were still glazed with sleep. He sniffed the air delicately and his eyes immediately lit up, "It smells rather delightful." He commented trying not to show too much of his excitement. John smiled and pulled the table up closer to the bed and began to untie the rosy bags. He picked out a pastry and handed it carefully over to the sleepy detective who pushed himself up against the headboard and took the food and uncivilly stuffed it in to his mouth. A small moan escaped his lips as he bit in to it; he slowed down eating as if to savor each bite. "I didn't know Benny's had this good of baked goods."

"How'd you-"

"John, it's on the bags in golden lettering like the ribbons. Anyone could've known that." Sherlock said gruffly but sneaked a smile at his companion.

John sighed and took a scone out and began to nibble at it, relieved to have decent food for once. "They do have good goods, just not the pies." He stifled a yawn and folded his legs up to his chest as he finished the sweet strip of dough, "So what're we going to do today?"

"Cluedo?" Sherlock asked, glancing mischievously at John.

"No, not that game again." John muttered, causing Sherlock to cross his arms and glare at him childishly. "If there's absolutely nothing to do, I do suppose we could." John sighed.

"You could've gone to work, John." Sherlock said abruptly.

"I could have." The army doctor murmured. Sherlock didn't make any further comment but just remained silent as he grabbed another pastry quickly sucking it down to digest. He looked at John who had suddenly gone in to deep thought; with his eyes focused on to a point on the tiled flooring and half an eaten scone in his right hand. Sherlock reached for a scone for himself, tasting it, and deciding it wasn't as good as the pastries.

John slowly fell on to his side on the bed and curled up at Sherlock's feet with a soft yawn. "Should have gotten myself a coffee." He murmured to himself. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, shifting his feet a bit so John had more room.

"So are you just going to have a nap and leave me to eat the rest of our breakfast?" Sherlock bent over and pulled a blanket over his friend and swiped one of his pillows and slid it underneath his head.

"Thanks." John yawned again, "Dunno why I'm so tired all of a sudden."

Sherlock suddenly froze and then seized his friend up by the arms, "John! The scones! You were drugged!" He yelped.

John batted at Sherlock, "Calm down. I'm just tired, all of this has made me tired. Don't worry." He grabbed Sherlock's hand gently in his, "We're going to be okay after this." He said in a sleepy voice. He nestled his head in to his pillow and kept his hand in Sherlock's, "Don't worry about Moriarty." He then drifted off in to sleep.

Sherlock remained sitting up, watching John carefully as he slept, still feeling anxious. He hadn't realized that Moriarty could make him feel so worried, it was the same worry he had felt when he saw explosives strapped to John at the Bristol South pool. He didn't want John to be harmed or even _killed _because of Sherlock's own enemies, it just couldn't happen or it would always haunt Sherlock, always. If John died Sherlock would be back to his lonely self in his flat, playing violin constantly never saying a word. He'd be back to drugs and be begging his past dealer to keep selling because his mind would be the death of him.

"We're going home tomorrow." Sherlock whispered to the sleeping army doctor, "Tomorrow everything goes back to normal."

Everything did. Sherlock settled back in to 221b, still on medicine until his wound had healed to an extent. He took a few cases, most small and not public, taking John along with him; finding himself more kind to his friend after he realized how much his friend meant to him and how important he was in his life. Shortly after a month break of any type of case he found himself in bigger cases that went in the news and pulled him in to irritating and boring interviews with people and press.

Soon, though, Sherlock found himself once again against Moriarty the consulting criminal and he ended up on the pavement with blood trickling over his face and spilling out over the sidewalk and his dark curls. John was his limp body's side not being allowed to once more hold his hand and assure him it was going to be okay.


End file.
